Eyes of a Stranger
by ProcurerFaith
Summary: After being missing for two weeks,Sam is found in an asylum and rescued-but the Sam Dean finds is wildly changed from the Sam he knows and loves.What could possibly be causing his painfully apparent mental illness? What's causing Sam's violent tendencies?
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's notes:**__ Grrr… I should have posted this ages ago. My original plan was to post it over the summer… Truth is, I was 117 pages in at the end of May and burned out. However, if I post a chapter a week, that puts me about about three months before I have to fork out the ending (about 30 pages to go, peeps! :-D) Normally I never post until I'm finished… muses_

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike ;;_

_Heh. Anyway, that's enough of that. Enjoy! :-D _

* * *

_**Eyes of a Stranger**_

_**Chapter One**_

Sam had gnawed his fingernails practically to the cuticle. That's why they'd tied his hands behind his back. He vaguely remembered that. His fingertips had been bloody – not that he paid much attention to blood, he'd seen so much of it. It tasted vaguely metallic he remembered. Blood, everywhere – on his hands, in his mouth, his ears, his eyes; soaking into his shirt, wet and warm on his chest, on his back, between his legs. He tugged his hands instinctively and yet again went through the cycle of resistance – how could he defend himself or Dean if his hands were tied? He screamed with frustration, hearing the bones in his hand crack as he pulled against the straitjacket with all his strength.

Dean.

What had happened to Dean?

Sam muttered under his breath, his words jumbled and fraught.

"Yellow eyes…yellow eyed demon, you…I can see you…even still, even in…Dean…Dean will come for me…Dean always comes for me…

"In the car, Dean's car…you…I…

"'I'd rather die'…

"Sammy…Sammy, what'd you do?...

"Sammy…

"It's Sam."

He rolled his eyes back into his head and pushed his head back as far as it would go into the padded wall immediately behind him. He banged his head into the padding repeatedly, harder and harder each time, until his eyes rolled with the pressure. Again, as he often did, he pummelled his shoulder into the wadding, desperately trying to dislocate his arm so as to wriggle out of the strait jacket.

"Dean! _Dean_!! He's coming for me! Don't let him… Don't let him take me… I'm- don't let him take me…

"I'm scared…I'm scared…I'm screaming Dean, 'where are you, where are you', but you're not here, you're not – you're not here…

"Dean, _you're not here_…"

Sam finally shivered and shook his head, lowering it so that he could tug at the neckline of the straitjacket with his teeth. His hair was greasy and three days of stubble encroached on his chin and cheeks.

"Don't…don't make me… Don't make me do it…

"_Don't make me see it again_!" His voice was a howl, and he pushed himself off the padded wall and landed with a thump against the wadded floor. He kicked against the wall with all his strength, screaming all the while as some unidentified horror replayed through his mind like a cinefilm. Spittle dribbled through his newly formed beard as he strained against his bonds like a caged tiger, rocking backwards and forwards on the floor as though caught in a seizure.

"Dean! _Dean_!"

* * *

At the end of the corridor, outside at the sentry station, Dr D Santana gritted his teeth at the sound, accentuating his already strong jaw line as he waited for the sentryman to give him the master keys.

"You know Doctor, I really shouldn't be doing this. I could get into a lot of trouble," the man said as he rattled through his keys. Dr Santana eyed the man's ID, noted his first initial, and said,

"Look, David-"

"Dawson," the man corrected with a smile,

"Of course, I knew that," the bestubbled doctor smiled and laughed dismissively. He pushed up his spectacles and said,

"I'm just such an idiot, leaving my keys in the office like that. See, you could just give me your keys, and nobody need ever know, right?"

"Oh no, sir. I've got to go in with you. The boys on this ward? Total lunatics. I mean, the word lunatic was _made_ for these guys," Dawson said, still fumbling with his keys. He stepped out from behind the desk, counting off the numbers engraved on the back of the keys as he sought the one for a single cell at the far end of the corridor.

"I'm…sure I can manage," Dr Santana said, licking his lips tentatively. Finally, the guard stopped fiddling with the keys and held up just one.

"Figures it's the last one you check, right?" He grinned stupidly and turned towards the looming corridor – it became his second stupid mistake in two seconds. He heard a click behind him and Dean grabbed the hand with the keys in it, holding it for a moment as the guard turned, hand on his gun – but he was too late. Dean continued to press the 1911 to his head and shrugged apologetically as Dawson froze.

When Dawson woke up in the local hospital, the last thing he remembered about his encounter with Dr D Santana was a pearl and chrome Colt 1911 heading straight between his eyes.

"That's gonna hurt in the morning," Dean muttered, still holding the arm with the keys in the air. He plucked them from the limp fingers and leaned down to disarm the guard and remove his handcuffs from their holster – then had a better idea.

A quick change later, his white lab coat shed and his ID in his pocket, Dean strode down the corridor as Dawson Inglerod, fully uniformed. The keys jangled in his hand as he made his way quickly towards Sam's cell, his boots loud against the wooden hallway.

One last glance both ways down the corridor and Dean peered through the hatch into cell 1213. What he saw made his heart sink to his boots. He put the key into the lock and turned, pushing back the door and slid into the room, closing the door to behind him.

The padded floor felt strange against the soles of his boots, and the prone body on the floor shuddered as he stepped towards it. Sam raised his eyes to Dean, and they froze him to the spot for a moment. They weren't Sammy's eyes – they weren't the eyes that Dean remembered and knew so well, full of soft melancholy and understanding.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered, and there was undisguised grief in that one word. He snapped off the black plastic-rimmed glasses that had been part of the Dr Santana disguise and knelt beside his brother quickly.

"Mmmph…" Sam said, and drew back, his head to one side, looking at Dean only out of the corner of his eyes, his breathing harsh and frightened.

"Go away! Demon! _Demon_!" Sam turned his back on Dean, pushing his face into the padded cell wall.

"Sam…it's me…" Dean said, swallowing as he pulled his brother around to face him. Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Dean's _dead_! You can't trick me, you yellow-eyed bastard, I know you…I know you…" He attempted to flail, to strike out at Dean, but was utterly hindered by the strait jacket.

"Sammy!" Dean put both hands firmly on Sam's face. "Do I look dead to you? Huh? Do I?" The mentally wounded Winchester looked at his brother through bloodshot eyes. Dean smiled reassuringly and used his thumb to wipe away a trail of blood from Sam's chin – he'd bitten his lip hard earlier in his convulsions without even realising.

"Dean…?" Sam's voice cracked, as did his lips as he smiled. It was more of a heartbreaking grimace than Sam's wide eye-reaching smile, but these were desperate times and Dean would take it.

"You're bleeding there, dude," Dean said softly.

"Dean…Dean, I thought you were dead…the yellow-eyed bastard came back and he ate you, he ate you…" Sam's words quickly dissolved into sobs as Dean pulled his brother's face to his shoulder, making fast work of the straitjacket locking his arms behind him.

"Yeah? Well, I bet I gave him one Hell of a bout of indigestion," Dean said in response. As soon as he could, Sam pulled his arms free of his bonds and locked on to his brother's waist, sobbing into his chest. As secretly pleased as Dean was with this, he knew they were pressed for time.

"Sammy…Sammy, listen to me. We've got to get you out of here," he said, and pulled Dawson's handcuffs out of the holster. Sam looked at them as though they were something to fear, but Dean put a hand reassuringly to the back of his head.

"It's just me, okay? It's just me. I'm not going to let us get separated again, okay? But you've got to do as I tell you," Sam looked confused. Dean nodded.

"Nod along with me, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam immediately nodded.

"Good enough," Dean said. He clapped one of the cuffs to his brother's wrists and wrapped the other around his own.

"See?" he said, lifting his hand. "Not going anywhere." Sam nodded loosely and clung to Dean's belt with his other hand as the older Winchester got to his feet.

It became obvious that it had been a while since Sam had been encouraged to stand, as he could barely do it at all. Anger burned like tar in Dean's chest, and in the back of his mind he thought how it might not be such a bad thing if he took some of these guys out on their way to the exit before he remembered grudgingly that they were just doing their jobs. He felt Sam push his head into the small of his back, and all the instinctive fire he had burned bright inside his heart.

"C'mon. Put your footsteps in mine, bro," Dean whispered as he pulled back the door and yanked Sam out into the corridor.

"L-like Good King Wenceslas…?" Sam muttered into Dean's back. "Do you have hot feet?"

"I think we should hotfoot it out of here, Sam," Dean offered as a response, and immediately pulled his trusty Colt 1911 as he saw Dawson moving slowly at the end of the corridor. Dean narrowed his eyes.

"This way," he whispered, and pulled his stumbling brother towards the other end of the corridor.

He hadn't planned the rescue without help or prior planning. It had taken two days of research to find and memorise the layout of the building, break in to find Sam's file, and line Bobby up in the truck as backup.

Dean found the lift to the lower floors and smacked the call button immediately, still scanning the corridors edgily. It was difficult to move quickly with Sam attached to him, so he was trying to avoid the stairs. He needed to get Sam out to the car park, end of story – it didn't matter how.

He'd shoot his way out if he absolutely had to.

"Good King Wenceslas looked out… On the… On the… Hmm-hmm-hmm…" Sam sang tunelessly behind Dean as he hung on his belt. Dean rolled his eyes for a moment and as soon as the lift came, pulled Sam inside unceremoniously. He pressed the ground floor button and hoped for a miracle.

A few seconds into their ride, alarms rang throughout the building. The lift stopped dead, inciting panic in Sam.

"He's coming…he's coming! Yellow-eyed bastard is coming!" Sam moaned, moving his clinging hand from Dean's belt to they back of his neck, clutching a handful of his jacket in his long, thin fingers and pushing his head once more into his brother's back.

"Guess we're at the back of the line for a miracle today, Sammy, same as every other day. Do _exactly_ what I tell you to do," Dean said firmly, his voice allowing no room for manoeuvre. Sam nodded into the back of Dean's jacket.

Dean jabbed at the 'open door' button. If he remembered rightly, and he normally did-

The lift had come to rest at the nearest floor, rather than simply stop between them. Dean pulled Sam out of the lift and immediately clocked that they were on the second floor. The alarms were just as loud here, and Sam was just as antsy. He clapped his unhindered hand against his head, pressing his palm tight into his right ear, and moaned.

"No…no…make it stop, he'll find us, it'll find us, make it stop, Dean, make it stop…!"

Dean was about to respond when he heard footsteps in the adjoining corridor. He glanced up, saw the CCTV camera directly in front of the lift and swore.

"Son of a Bitch, that was fast," he muttered, one hand still locked to Sam and one still holding the grip of his Colt 1911. He looked to his left and to a large frosted glass radial window. He raised an eyebrow as his pursuers came into view around the corner.

"Stop right there!" said an authoritative voice, but Dean had never been one for authority from anyone other than Dad or Sam. He smirked, fired two shots over the heads of the minimum wage security guards and then fired two into the window. The glass shattered immediately and the sound of it splintering echoed throughout the corridor.

The security guards had immediately ducked on being shot at, and Dean wasted no time in elbowing out the sharp shards of glass around the wooden frame. If he remembered rightly - and he normally did…

There was a ten foot drop below the window, straight on to a raised bank of grass that was even with the first floor. If he timed it right -

A bullet whistled past Dean's ear. The bile and tar rose in his chest again – there was no way he was going to lose Sam now, not after finding him at last. He turned, finding the security guard racing towards him, gun raised, and approaching too quickly. He was a threat Dean couldn't afford to negotiate with. He immediately raised his own gun and winged the security guard – putting a .45 calibre bullet straight through the soft flesh of his shoulder.

The action was enough to distract the security guards for a few moments, and Dean turned back to the window.

"Sam, when I say jump, you jump. Okay?" he bellowed, and felt Sam nod again. Dean climbed into the empty window frame quickly and pulled Sam up beside him while the security guards continued to struggle with the sudden chaos behind them.

"Ready?" he asked, looking directly at Sam. The lost-looking Winchester nodded.

"Jump!" Dean roared. He leapt from the glassless window into very early morning darkness, tearing splinters of wood away from the white-gloss paint frame. Sam was a second or so behind him, and stayed there. For a moment, Dean registered little but the tug on his wrist that indicated Sammy was still attached to him – then he felt the ground under his feet and folded his knees, preparing to roll.

That turned out to be slightly more difficult than he'd calculated with Sam attached to him. It relied on a certain amount of synchronisation – something which was out of the reach of the brothers at the present time. He stumbled forward and before he knew what he was doing, he was on his back and gazing up at the stars, winded.

Dean heard Sam call his name beside him as he struggled to his feet, desperately trying to make his lungs do what they were supposed to. He was unable to speak, unable to reassure his brother. All he could do was grab Sammy by the scruff; no mean feat for a man several inches shorter than his sibling. Dean shoved his brother ahead of himself and pushed, guiding him over the grassy bank towards the six foot drop at its edge which faced off against the car park.

"Let's try this again, Sammy. When I say jump, you jump," Dean instructed. Sam fixed his frightened eyes on his brother's for a moment and nodded.

"Okay. Three – jump!"

This time Dean was prepared for the rough landing and dragged Sam to his feet by the wrist. However, it was the younger Winchester who took the hardest fall this time, and Dean took a second to check him over before wrenching him towards the car park, where the Impala and Bobby's truck were parked side by side.

Bobby leapt out of the truck and approached them quickly. Sam pulled back at first, muttering something under his breath and digging his free hand back into Dean's belt.

"Jesus… What'd they do to him…?" asked Bobby, aghast. Dean just shook his head and reached into his pocket for the car keys.

Dean unlocked the passenger side door on the right of the car. Sam shied away again, but Dean wasn't having any of it. He heard the armed guards approaching quickly from the grassy knoll and needed Sam in the car _right now_.

He snaked the key into the cuff on his wrist and quickly pulled himself free. He slid the key into the cuff on Sam's wrist – and paused, hesitating for a moment as a thought occurred to him. It was one it stung to acknowledge, but Dean did so nonetheless. The last thing he needed was Sammy hurting himself; there was no padded cell to protect him now. He pulled out the key without unlocking the restraint and clapped the remaining cuff over Sam's untethered wrist. Sam looked at him, stunned and frightened, both hands now cuffed before him. Dean immediately clasped a hand around the back of Sam's head and pulled his brother's forehead to his own.

"Sammy. Do you trust me?" He looked directly into Sam's eyes; concentrated, unfaltering. Sam nodded; there was hesitation in his own expression, but also unwavering faith. Dean immediately pushed Sam into the back of the car.

"Sam, put your hands over here… and keep them there…" Dean said, pulling Sam's hands up by the cuffs and pulling the chain over the headrest of the Impala after pushing the chair back into place. Sam did so without complaint, and immediately pressed his head into the back of the seat.

Dean threw the door shut and opened the driver's door, getting quickly into the driving seat, just as a row of guards starting dropping off the grassy bank and heading in their direction. He pulled the door tightly shut and started the engine.

"Hold tight, Sammy!"

Bobby had already jumped back into his truck and started it up, and was heading for the rapidly closing gates.

"Oh no you ain't," he said firmly, and gunned the truck. Two security guards scattered as he careened towards them, several thousand pounds of truck more than enough to give them reason to rethink their work ethic. He crashed through the gates, leaving one swinging from only the bottom hinge.

Dean swore and shook his head, but drove the Impala onwards in the mud tracks Bobby had left behind him.

"Sorry baby, sorry baby, sorry baby… I'll fix it, I promise…" he said, as he changed gear. The Impala smashed through what remained of the gates, cracking the windscreen and leaving half of the front bumper hanging on the iron curls of the gate.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled as he drove the Impala back onto the main road and put his foot down to catch up with Bobby.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Sam repeated, his fingers in Dean's hair and collar as he hung from the back of the headrest, his face still pushed as far as possible into the back of the seat in front of him.

"It's all right, Sammy. It's all right. We'll get you back to Bobby's – everything's gonna be all right…"

* * *

In the early morning light, and in the quiet of Bobby's house, it became clear that although Sam's mood improved greatly away from the repressive atmosphere of the asylum, his mental health did not. Twice Dean had removed the handcuffs, and twice Sam had put them back on - until finally, in a rage born of worry and fear, Dean had taken them off, locked them shut and thrown both them and the keys into opposite ends of the junkyard.

This had sent Sam running into a corner, disoriented and wide-eyed. He now sat in that same corner, hiding behind a wooden kitchen chair. Every now and then he'd peer out from between the pine chair legs, decide it wasn't safe, and his face would disappear from view again.

Dean rubbed his cheek as he watched this for the seventh time.

"What the Hell is wrong with him, Bobby?"

"I don't know. It's nothing I've ever seen before." Bobby said, and his expression of worry mirrored Dean's. Dean moved towards his brother, but Bobby grabbed his arm. Dean turned, looking displeased at the sudden restriction.

"Get some holy water in him, Dean." Bobby warned. "It doesn't look like a possession, but… These are interesting times.

"I'll make some calls. See if anyone knows anything."

Dean nodded and pulled a flask from his back pocket. He walked slowly over to where his brother sat huddled behind the wooden chair, the early summer sun falling over his cotton-clad shoulders.

Dean pulled up a matching chair to Sam's and reversed it, sitting a few feet in front of his little brother. He rested his head on his arms and looked over towards Sam, penetrating the bars with his gaze. He briefly caught a glimpse of his brother's frightened eyes, but then they were gone. Dean smiled softly.

"Dude. You gonna spend all day in there?"

He was rewarded with a shuffle, and Sam's face appeared briefly at the wooden bars again.

"Is it because of the cuffs?"

Another shuffle.

"Never figured you for the kinky kind, Sammy," Dean grinned. "I'm proud of you!"

Two eyes blinked at the front of the wooden cage.

"I need you to drink something for me."

Blink. Blink.

"It shouldn't hurt."

Blink. Shuffle.

"If you're Sammy."

Shuffle. Closer this time.

"It's _Sam_." Dean smirked at this.

"Okay, 'Sam'. You thirsty? _I'm _thirsty." Dean opened the flask, lifted it to show Sam, and drank a long swig. He glanced at Sam, half-hidden though he was, and saw his younger brother looking curious and thoughtful. He swallowed the mouthful, and held the flask out for Sam.

"You got to come get it."

Shuffle. Moan. Creak.

"I'm not taking it to you. You want it, you come get it."

Shuffle. Fidget.

_Sigh_.

The chair moved slowly as Sam got to his feet. He looked uncomfortable at being so exposed, but moved towards Dean and held out his hand for the flask. Dean gave it to him without comment, and the younger Winchester took a long swig.

He swallowed without so much as a flinch, and Dean sighed inwardly with relief. Sam handed back the flask and lowered himself to the wooden floor beside Dean's chair, crossing his legs. He let out a deep sigh as he did so.

Sam murmured something unintelligible and rested the side of his head against Dean's knee. Dean's expression fluttered briefly between confusion and concern, finally settling on the latter. He hesitated for a moment, before resting his palm on his brother's dirty hair. He ran his fingers through it gently, and Sam responded by folding his arms over Dean's thigh and resting the side of his head against them, gazing out at the branches of a tree just visible through the kitchen window.

"Where've you been, Sam?" Dean asked softly. His brother simply sighed and buried his head deeper into his arms.

"Out of sight, out of mind… _My_ mind… S'mine…" Sam murmured quietly, and continued for a few more moments until his words drifted away like splinters on the ebbing tide.

Dean too gazed out of the window onto the tree, his face stoic but his mind racing. What could have made Sammy like this? He'd been missing for over two weeks – Bobby had practically had to force Dean to let up and eat, he'd been so concentrated on finding his little brother. Now he was here…

This wasn't what Dean had expected. He knew strange; hell, it was part of the job description. But this was… stranger than strange. It was uncomfortable strange, the kind of strange that ate you away until you couldn't bear to look at it anymore. 'Dingo ate my baby' strange.

Sam murmured something quietly and shuffled beside Dean.

"I was out of my mind, too…" Dean said quietly, brushing a lock of Sam's greasy hair away from his face. Sam lifted his head immediately at this and his expression changed to one of intense concern as he got to his knees. Dean had but one moment to realise how dangerous his tall, muscular brother might be if not in control of his faculties - when Sam wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held on for dear life. He pressed his cheek against Dean's and rubbed his head with his hand, trying to get a purchase on Dean's cropped hair. Dean knew his brother well enough to recognise the sound of his grief and pulled his own arms up across his back.

"Don't let them take you… Don't let them take you too…" Sam said, weeping.

Grief crossed Dean's own face for a moment. Could this really be his Sammy? This broken, damaged husk – _his_ Sammy?

"Nobody's taking me away, okay? _Nobody_. You're stuck with me – always have been, always will be. Okay?" Dean said, rubbing Sam's back comfortingly.

They sat, frozen in their tableau for a moment; as though the rest of the world couldn't touch them, couldn't threaten them, couldn't separate them.

Dean glanced up briefly as he saw Bobby approach them, his steps quiet as a hunter's could be. Bobby cleared his throat quietly and Dean nodded.

He pulled Sam away and looked him up and down.

"Now. Go shower. You stink," Dean said, smirking to disguise his concern. Sam smiled gently and stood. He had to be ushered away once more before he headed towards the bathroom. Dean watched him go, all humour gone from his face.

"What you got, Bobby?" he asked, not taking his eyes from the bathroom door.

"Ahh, not much. I've put the word out, but nobody I've spoken to so far knows anything.

"It's gonna take a lot of research." Bobby sighed.

Dean nodded, still watching after the route Sam had taken to the bathroom.

"Whatever it takes," he said, and looked around at Bobby. His friend and mentor nodded.

* * *

Dean glanced as his watch as he and Bobby pored over a collection of books from his extensive library of occult lore. Alarm bells were ringing in the back of his head. Sure, Sammy _was _a bit of a tart, and it wasn't anything unusual for him to take twenty minutes to shower – but it was going on for thirty now and that was uncomfortably long for Dean, particularly with Sam in his present state.

Suddenly there was a banging and a crashing in the bathroom and within seconds Dean was out of his chair, gun in his hand and heading straight for the bathroom. Dean heard Sam scream - and after that he didn't remember anything else until he was in the bathroom, door fractured at the lock.

Sam's breathing was laboured and he shook from head to toe. He was half-wrapped in the shower curtain - it looked as though he'd fallen out of the shower and the curtain had arrested his fall. His head was buried in his arms and he was hunched over his legs. Dean moved towards him, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans as he knelt before his vulnerable brother. He was closely followed by Bobby, who glanced around the room, checking for signs of demonic presence. Sam reached his hands up to the sides of his head and clawed at it. His face was distorted with pain as he looked up at Dean and pleaded,

"Make it…Make it stop…"

"Make what stop?" Dean asked, putting both hands firmly on Sam's shoulders. He brushed his palm against his brother's cheek and in a second Sam had grabbed his hand, holding it in place there as he forced himself to breathe. His eyes rolled for a moment as he fought for purchase on his consciousness. Sam's cheek was hot against Dean's palm and, near-frantic with worry, Dean shook his brother by the shoulder to retain his attention.

"Sammy! Sammy, look at me!" Dean slid his hand down to Sam's chin and lifted it firmly, forcing him retain eye contact.

"Make what stop? Make what stop, Sammy?" he asked frantically. Sam moaned; deep and agonised, and banged his head against the base of the sink behind him. He did it again, and again, and Dean wasn't quite fast enough to stop a fourth time; a smattering of blood sprinkled across the white enamel behind Sam's head.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed angrily, pulling his brother towards him and away from the sink. His fingers immediately probed the bleeding head wound, but as with many head wounds, the bleeding made it look much worse than it actually was.

"Make it stop… Make…make the pain stop…" Sam panted, his body rigid and tight with his agony and fear. Dean immediately forced himself to his feet, pulling Sam up with him. Bobby moved forward, helping Dean to get Sam upright.

"Bobby! Help me get him out of here," Dean said, as Sam hung all his weight over his brother's shoulder. Bobby nodded, and between them they carried their shaking charge through to the couch in the front room.

Dean sat beside him on the old sofa, and Sam immediately shrunk into as small a form as he could manage. He pushed his face into Dean's shoulder, and at once Dean saw the flash of red against the deep grey of his own t-shirt. He lifted Sam's chin forcefully to see a new trail of blood trickle down from Sam's nose and over his lips, dropping finally onto Dean's jeans.

"What the…!?" Dean said.

"Pass out…" gasped Sam. "Let me…I'm…pass out…" he pushed Dean away and stumbled to his feet. Dean instantly got up to grab him – but although he was fast enough to grab Sam's arm, he wasn't fast enough to grab Sam's body as his consciousness finally vacated it. The younger Winchester crashed headlong into the floor and was immediately still and unflinching.

In no time at all Dean was beside his brother, calling his name desperately. He checked for a pulse; it felt as though, in the moment between feeling a heartbeat and realising that there was one to feel, the world completed an entire revolution for Dean.

He quickly checked Sam for broken bones – he'd hit the wooden floor hard enough for Dean to hear cracking. Finding none, he rolled him over and pulled him into his arms, his attention entirely consumed by his motionless brother.

"Sam… Sammy, can you hear me?" Dean ran frantic fingers through his brother's sodden hair. He wiped the blood smears from Sam's face with his palm and rubbed the scarlet stain into his jeans, barely noticing the action at all.

The blood was watery and thin, but Dean didn't notice this, either – nor did he realise it's significance.

"Sam!" Once again, Dean ran his hands over Sam's forehead, through his hair, anything to keep contact, all the time his heart beating like the hooves of wild horses. Bobby had raced from the room to grab a blanket when Dean pulled Sam into his arms and returned now, passing the prize to Dean. Dean immediately took the fleecy blue fabric, wrapping it around his ailing brother's chest and covering the nakedness that made his vulnerability seem all the more insidious.

Suddenly, Sam's breath caught in his throat. Dean's own breathing stopped at this, until Sam opened his eyes. His heart sank as Sam gazed at him, pain and confusion in those once bright orbs. Sam smiled weakly, seemingly by way of apology.

"Sam…" Dean said, and his voice was barely a whisper.

"I'll…go get some water…" Bobby said, and quietly left the brothers alone for much more time than it took to fill a glass.

"Dean… I'm sick… I'm sick… don't…I don't know what's happening to me…" Sam whispered, and for a moment he sounded lucid and sane. He took two sharp breaths and covered his eyes with a hand. Dean put his palm to Sam's forehead and said,

"It'll be all right, Sammy. Whatever this is, whatever's happening to you, we'll find it and we'll fix it. You hear me? No matter what," and his mind tacked on the silent words _because there's no alternative. I can't accept anything else._

"Let's get you up off the floor," Dean said, and slowly dragged his brother to unsteady feet. He pulled most of Sam's weight onto his shoulders, practically carrying his just-about upright brother towards the room they were sharing.

Sitting Sam on the bed, Dean quickly helped him to dress in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He left briefly to grab a towel from the bathroom. On his return, he placed it over Sam's head, firmly rubbing it over the wet hair beneath.

Sam was silent. Even his insane murmurings and utterances had stopped entirely. It drove Dean crazy. He would have preferred anything to that pervading silence right then – his brother's normal, pouting admonishments, an argument – anything.

"Aren't ya gonna talk to me, Sammy?" he said, using both hands to dry Sam's untidy locks. Sam closed his eyes and hung his hand in Dean's belt, tugging his brother towards him so that he could rest his heavy head on his stomach. Dean stumbled forward, but almost immediately regained his footing - and kept his complaints silent.

"I'm not… I don't…" Sam murmured tiredly. Dean rubbed the towel once more through the now damp hair and threw it idly over his shoulder, so that it rested on his shirt.

"I'm talk…tomorrow…I'm talk…" Sam muttered confusedly.

"It's okay. You don't wanna talk, that's fine. We'll talk tomorrow," Dean said, using his fingers by way of a brush and combing through Sam's hair. He was consistently careful not to disturb the wound on the back of his brother's head.

"There was… I saw a man, a demon in the dark…I was dark…In the, in the dark…" Sam mumbled. At this, Sam had Dean's full attention, and the older Winchester brother sat down on the bed.

"When was this?

"Was this when you were missing?"

Sam looked up at Dean confusedly.

"Missing…?

"When I was away from Dean?"

"Yes – when you were away from Dean," Dean said. Sam's head lolled slightly and he cast tired eyes up at his brother.

"The demons came… They put something behind my eyes…" Sam muttered, waving his hand over his right eye. "I told them no, I told them no, I didn't want it…"

"Where were you? When you were away from Dean, where were you?" Dean asked, knowing how important it was to decipher and research what Sam was saying while he slept, while he tried to recover from whatever had caused him so much pain.

They kept me away from Dean… Th-they put me in a box, away from Dean… I was in a building with men and drink and demons…"

"A bar? You were in a bar? A roadhouse?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head twice.

"I'm sleep… tomorrow, ask me tomorrow…" Sam mumbled, and crawled his way up towards the head of the bed. Dean frowned and sighed, rubbing his forehead. Sam fell onto the pillow and tucked his arms under it.

Dean pulled hard on the blanket trapped beneath his brother. Sam shifted out of the way and into a more comfortable position, while Dean threw the now freed blanket over his brother's form.

Just as he moved to leave, Dean felt Sam's hand on his wrist. He looked down at his brother, who looked up at him with eyes suddenly overflowing with fear.

"Don't let them take me…" he said. Dean shook his head.

"Hey. Ain't nobody taking you anywhere," he said firmly, and tucked Sam's grasping hand underneath the blanket. Sam looked at him with a worried expression, until Dean smirked and slapped his cheek fondly. Sam smiled weakly and turned his face back to the pillow.

Dean pulled some books off a nearby chair and dragged it up to Sam's bed. He reversed it and sat down, much as he had with the chair in the kitchen.

"I'll just sit here with you for a bit, Sammy," Dean said quietly – but his addled brother was already asleep. Dean watched as he slept, slightly relieved by the gentle up and down of the covers.

He glanced up as Bobby entered the doorway.

"I thought you were getting some water?" Dean asked. Bobby looked into the corner of the room.

"Oh. Yeah… I was, wasn't I?

"How is he?" the bearded man asked, looking at the young man sprawled in the bed.

"Like crap," Dean said, simply. He rested his hands on the back of the wooden chair and rubbed his face with them. "I have no idea what's wrong with him, Bobby. How the Hell can I help him if I don't know how?"

"We'll figure it out, boy. We've figured out some strange shit before, we can do it again," Bobby said encouragingly.

"He was talking about demons putting something in his head," Dean said, looking up at Bobby. "That mean anything to you?" Bobby shook his head.

"Not straight off the bat."

"He could just be talking junk," Dean said, scratching this head. Bobby saw the strain starting to show on the young man's face.

Bobby had no children, no sons of his own. He'd been around these two boys through a lot of their youth – until his argument with John, that is. In the absence of any children of his own, he loved them like they _were _his own sons. All they had was each other – Hell, Dean had made a contract with a demon to save his brother from death. On their lonely journey, battling all manner of things that Hell threw up from its deepest pits, all they could rely on was one another. Their relationship was strange, but beautiful, and the idea of either of them being separated from the other was anathema to Bobby.

"C'mon," he said quietly. "Let's get back to it."

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed my offering! If you did, please remember to come back next week, when a new chapter will be up!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

* * *

_**Eyes of a Stranger**_

_**Chapter Two**_

Hours passed. The sun rose high in the sky and then started to fall, and still Dean and Bobby were buried in research. Even as darkness crept up from the ground, they read and read and read. They looked through books, archived documents, maps, paper cuttings, at websites – Dean had read so much by early evening that his eyes swam.

Sitting back in the chair, he rubbed them hard and sighed.

"There's nothing here, Bobby."

"We'll just keep looking. We'll find something," Bobby said, not lifting his eyes from the page he was reading.

"There's nothing here!" Dean yelled, and backhanded a book off the table. He rested his elbows on the old oak and pushed his forehead into his palms. He took some deep breaths, trying to calm his tension and anger and worry.

Bobby turned the page of his book and said, calmly,

"You done?" Dean didn't answer.

"Go check on Sam again," Bobby said, still not lifting his eyes from the page.

Dean stood and, feeling a little like a chastened child, picked up the book from the floor and mumbled,

"Sorry,"

"Mm-hmm," Bobby acknowledged with a gentle nod and glanced up at Dean. Dean ran his hand over his cropped hair and nodded, before turning towards the bedrooms.

The door was still ajar – Dean had left it that way deliberately so that he could hear anything untoward happening inside the room. He crept inside silently, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the near-pitch darkness of the room before crossing to Sam's bedside.

His brother was sleeping the same way he often did; on his back, with his right arm resting on the pillow by his head. To look at him as he slept, you'd never know that this Sammy was any different to the one who had simply disappeared from the motel room in Farmington, New Mexico two weeks ago.

But he _was_ a different Sammy. In fact, he was hardly Sammy at all. The odd sentient sentence or an occasional smile were almost all that was left of the Sam that Dean knew and loved like no-one else on Earth.

Dean stood, silently watching as his brother's chest rose and fell.

He wanted to protect him. He wanted to fix this, more than anything else in the world. He wanted to feel less like a failure, less helpless, less like a spectator while his brother went crazy due to God only knew what. He wanted to help Sam, wanted to save him.

Nor would he stop until he had. There was no alternative.

If there was no Sam, there was no point to Dean's being.

Dean finally pulled up the chair and sat beside the bed. For a while he just sat, listening to his brother's breathing and trying to calm himself. They could do this, he and Bobby could do this. It could be done. They would find out what was wrong with Sam and they would fix it.

Somehow.

Somewhere in the distance, Dean heard the telephone ring. He didn't think much of it, other than 'shut up I'm trying to think'. After a few minutes more, a slightly calmer Dean slowly and silently slipped from the room, leaving his brother to his dreams.

He came back to the library, where Bobby was pouring over yet another book.

"Ellen called. She might have a job," Bobby said.

"I've got a job already. I'm not taking it," Dean said as he sat back in his chair, no room for quarter in his voice. Sam was all that mattered – Dean had no intention of being convinced to take any other job until he was well again.

"It might have something to do with Sam," Bobby said. He pulled out a crumpled map from beneath a pile of books and spread it out on the table. Grabbing a pen, he charted the co-ordinates Ellen had given him over the phone and showed Dean the result.

Bobby had marked five dots on the map, each in a different place in the western quarter of Minnesota. Even without the lines to join the dots, Dean could see what Bobby did. If he had joined the dots together, they would have represented a reversed pentagram.

"In each one of these towns, there's been some strange event in the past three or four weeks. They've all been centred around people who've exhibited the same kind of symptoms as Sam. Mental disturbance, inability to form sentences, poor powers of recall… sudden, crippling headaches with loss of consciousness…" Bobby paused before continuing.

"Dean…

"They all picked up guns and shot a whole bunch of people.

"Then they turned the gun on themselves."

Dean licked his lips and said, finally,

"That won't happen to Sammy."

"Dean!"

"It won't happen to Sammy because I won't let it happen!" Dean bellowed, banging a fist on the table. "Tell Ellen we'll take the job."

"Okay." Bobby nodded. "She had more details – said she'd fax them over if we were interested in taking the job.

"Why don't you go grab something to eat? You haven't eaten since you got here," Bobby suggested. Dean shook his head.

"I'm not hungry."

"Sam hasn't eaten, either." Bobby said, and it occurred suddenly to Dean exactly how canny the older man was.

Dean stood and looked at Bobby suspiciously as he donned his jacket, pulling the keys for the Impala out of his pocket.

"Why don't you get her to e-mail them?"

"I don't like e-mail," Bobby pouted. Dean smirked.

"Gotta move with the times, man. You got a preference?"

"Fax," replied Bobby.

"I meant food," said as he headed for the door.

"Oh. Mexican," Bobby replied, putting a slip of paper to mark his page into the book he'd been reading.

"No can do," replied Dean. "Sammy doesn't do Mexican."

"Chinese then, I don't care," Bobby said as he picked up his cell phone. Dean smirked and said,

"You sure you can work that?"

"Shut up and get the Hell out," Bobby said, frowning at the newly acquired cell phone. He heard the door close and looked up at him, a smirk on his own face.

That was better. Wisecracking Dean was better than angry Dean any day of the week. Even if he _was_ wisecracking at Bobby's expense.

* * *

Sam woke suddenly in the darkness. Panic engulfed him; it was dark and he was alone. With his mind addled, he couldn't tell the difference between real danger and perceived danger – thus, this situation was perilous to the extreme. He didn't remember how he'd got into bed, he didn't remember where he was, he didn't remember anything but-

"Dean…

"Dean!" Sam cried, stumbling out of bed. In his hurry, he tripped on the chair Dean had left near the bed and fell to the floor in a pile, still wide-eyed and terrified. He crawled on all fours, dizzy and still the worse for wear after his earlier episode.

He looked up as light suddenly poured in through the doorway. Bobby stood in the doorway, his expression one of worry. He walked forward and tried to help Sam to his feet – but Sam pushed him away.

"Who are you?" he said, his voice low and hostile. Taken aback, Bobby said,

"Who am I? It's me. Bobby. You know me, Sam…"

"I don't! I don't know! I know… I know Dean. Where's Dean? Where…?" Sam said, resting his head in the crook of his arm, desperately trying to stop his head spinning.

"Dean's gone to get us something to eat… He'll be back soon, I promise…" Bobby said. "Let me help you-"

"_Nnnno_!" Sam bellowed, and Bobby took a step back.

"I can't help if you won't let me, Sam!" Bobby said, exasperated.

"I don't want it! Your help, I don't… I don't…" Sam said, pushing himself back up to his knees on his own. He took a deep breath and forced himself to his feet, immediately falling forward. He managed to save himself with a chest of drawers and stumbled through to the front room.

Sam flopped down on the sofa and sat as still as he could. Bobby shook his head and walked through to the kitchen, to fetch his charge a very overdue glass of water.

What he saw when he returned took two years off his life.

There was nothing behind Sam's eyes as he levelled the gun at Bobby. There was nothing of the old Sam at all, no remorse, no guilt, no uncertainty.

"Where's Dean?" he growled. Bobby froze; the only thing that moved was the water in the glass.

"I told you Sam, he's gone to get us something to eat. Now put that thing down," Bobby said, his heart racing.

"No lies!

"Demon! You're like _him_, like the one who put…put something here!" Sam slapped the side of his head distractedly. Bobby's eyes flicked between Sam and the gun; the kid was spooked and not thinking straight. Sure, there was nothing new about that lately, but he could pull that trigger and not even realise.

"Dean! Where's Dean!?" Sam asked frantically, and cocked the revolver he'd found in Bobby's workshop.

"Sam, I'm not going to talk to you with a gun in your hand!" Bobby said, his voice becoming a roar. Ripples slid across the surface of the water in the glass.

"Talk! _Talk_! Tell me, tell me what Dean…Where's Dean…?

"What happened to Dean…?"

And suddenly, Sam's eyes showed something more than cold hardness and hatred. They showed fear, terror – the intense dread of being left alone inside his own head.

"What's happening to me…?" he asked, matching eyes with Bobby for a moment. Bobby shook his head.

"I don't know…" Bobby said, his expression laced with sadness even in this predicament.

Sam slapped his head again. The gun slipped down as he paid more attention to his mind than to his hostage, and Bobby made a choice – a dangerous one. He moved forward quickly, still holding the glass in his hand – but Sam was instantly alerted by the movement and once again his eyes darkened. He lifted the gun back up, aimed it at Bobby – and fired.

Bobby had barely a second to dodge, but it was just enough. The bullet smashed through the glass in Bobby's hand, decimating it and sending a cloud of water spray into the air and shards of glass all across Bobby's shoulder. Bobby rolled as he hit the floor, hiding behind the sofa.

"What in Hell…?!" Dean's voice bellowed suddenly from the doorway, a bag of aromatic Chinese food now forgotten in his hand. Sam dropped the gun immediately and threw himself at Dean, dropping to his knees, pressing his face into his stomach and clinging to the back of his belt with both hands.

"Bobby, you okay?!" Dean called, dropping the food. Bobby poked his head out from around the back of the sofa cautiously.

"Just shrapnel wounds…" Bobby said, picking himself up and dusting glass shards carefully from his denim jacket. Dean grabbed Sam's face and lifted it up so that he could see it, horror-struck.

"Sammy, what'd you do?!" he asked urgently. It was Sam's turn to look horror-struck.

"I thought…I he…Hurt you… Made you leave, made you dead…" Sam said, tears spilling down his face.

"Sam, this is Bobby. _Bobby_! Bobby wouldn't hurt us. Bobby's been…" Dean paused and knelt in front of Sam, not letting go of the firm grip he had on his face. "Bobby's been more of a father to us than our _own_ father _ever_ was."

"There was a demon!" protested Sam, still weeping.

"No. There wasn't. There was no demon in here," Dean said, shaking his head. Sam took a deep breath and sobbed,

"There's a demon in _here_," and pointed to his head. Before Dean had a chance to speak, Sam had pulled the Colt 1911 from Dean's waistband and put it to his own head.

"Sammy, what're you doing?" Dean asked, frozen as adrenaline sped through him.

"I'll kill it. I'll kill the demon…" Sam said, his jaw trembling.

"Sam, don't be stupid! Dean said, and reached out his hand for the Colt. Sam pulled away, dragging the muzzle beneath his chin and pushing it hard into the soft flesh there.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare, Sammy…" Dean murmured, forcing himself to breathe. "I'm the loose cannon, I'm the self-destructive one, not you, not Sammy… Don't you _dare_ do this to me…"

"I have to…Demon…Demon has to die…I don't want it anymore…" Sam muttered between breaths. Dean put both hands on Sam's shoulders, never losing eye contact with his disturbed brother.

"_I_ will kill your demon. _I _will get it out of you, so help me God, Sammy, but if you do this I can't help you, I can't stop it…" Dean said. "Give me the gun."

Sam shook his head slowly and tears continued to roll down his face.

"I tried…I nearly…Bobby…It's _Bobby_…Bobby wouldn't hurt us…" Sam wept.

Dean set eyes on the revolver on the floor. He glanced over at Bobby, indicating with his eyes for him to bring it to him. Bobby looked bemused, but lifted the gun quietly and brought it to Dean's side. Sam fidgeted nervously, but Dean grabbed his face again and pulled his eye contact back.

"_You_ look at _me_!" he snapped. "If you're gonna shoot yourself, I want you to look me in the eye while you do it!" He snatched up the gun from the floor and cocked it, putting the muzzle under his own chin in direct mimicry of Sam.

Sam looked utterly horrified.

"If you're going Sammy, then I'm going with you. C'mon, do it. Do it. If you kill yourself, you take me with you. Do it. Do it," Dean snarled, his breathing fast. Tears appeared in his eyes and he licked his lips nervously.

"No…" Sam said, his voice all but lost in his sobs, dragging his eyes away from Dean.

"Look at me!

"Why won't you do it now? Hmm? Somebody's gotta look after you where you're going. Do it. Do it," Dean insisted, the tears that had filled his eyes running down his cheeks.

"No!" Sam said, and the cry was heartfelt but broken.

"Do it."

"No…"

"Do it!"

"No!"

"_Do it_!!"

"_Nnnno_!!" Sam screamed, and pulled the gun away from his chin. In a heartbeat, Dean had thrown the revolver to one side and was wrestling Sam for his Colt. He threw his brother down against the wooden floor and, with all his might, smashed the hand holding the gun repeatedly into it.

"Let go!" Dean snapped, smashing the hand again – but it made no difference. Holding Sam's hand down to the floor, he slapped his face – hard.

"Let go!"

Slap.

"Let go!"

Slap.

"_Let go!!"_

Finally, the Colt slipped out of Sam's hand, and Bobby snatched up both guns before he had to bury the two brothers. Sam wailed, his cry utterly heartbroken. He covered his face with his hands, and sobbed. The knuckles on one hand were bruised and bloody but he didn't even notice, so broken were his cries.

Dean sagged and took a deep breath, placing his head on Sam's chest. Sam slapped the top of his brother's head twice, but then put his hand back to his face.

"I know… I know…" Dean said, no longer angry in the slightest. Rocking back up to his knees, Dean pulled Sam into his arms, and the younger Winchester did not protest – he just carried on sobbing brokenly. Dean took as much of Sam as he could into his arms and pressed his cheek to Sam's hair, trying to do whatever he could to comfort him and stop his tears – in spite of his own.

Feeling entirely like a spare part, Bobby walked out to the back door, opened it, and stepped out into the night. He took off his cap and rubbed his head – then put his hand over his face, as he too shed a tear for the brothers' pain.

He was outside for no more than ten minutes, but when he returned Sam was sitting at the table, hunched over a plate that Dean was messily dispensing noodles to.

Dean had cleared a space for the plates and was now dividing a container of beef fried rice between his own plate and the one opposite – where presumably he expected Bobby to sit.

"I got us beef and mushroom, too – that okay with you?" Dean asked, sniffing as he saw Bobby enter.

"Uh….yeah," Bobby replied, slightly bemused at this sudden burst of domesticity. "What did Sam get?"

"Chicken chow mein. And he's going to eat what he's given," Dean said, turfing the now empty containers into the plastic bag. He wiped his hands on a napkin and headed towards the kitchen with the bag, taking Bobby's elbow as he did so.

"Bobby, I…" Dean said as he looked to the older man. "I'm…" Despite preparing the apology for his brother's actions in his head, words failed him. He sighed, and Bobby took pity on him. He reached out and squeezed his shoulder fondly.

"Just make sure he doesn't do it again," Bobby said earnestly. Dean smirked and nodded.

"Gotcha," he said, and carried on taking out the trash.

Bobby sat on Sam's left – despite feeling slightly uncomfortable after the events of the last hour, he couldn't help but take pity on the boy. Sam cast his eyes to Bobby briefly and reached out his hand. His fingers glanced off the older man's jeans and Sam nervously pulled his hand back. Bobby was having none of that. He captured Sam's hand back firmly, and squeezed it. He smiled encouragingly, and he was treated to a smile in return. After an extended moment, Bobby let go and reached out for the chopsticks.

"You want me to break yours?" he asked Sam. Sam nodded. Bobby skilfully broke both pairs of chopsticks at the centre and handed Sam a set.

"You eat Chinese a lot, Bobby?" Dean asked smugly as he re-entered and sat down. He picked up his own set of chopsticks and broke them - asymmetrically.

"Shoot," he said, frowning. Bobby rolled his eyes and swapped his chopsticks for Deans.

"There, ya baby," he said. Sam smiled widely and flicked his eyes up at Dean.

"What are you laughing at?" Dean asked, pouting slightly. Sam shook his head and tried to use the chopsticks he'd been given – but his co-ordination was too poor. He frowned; he apparently remembered being able to use them previously and it bugged him.

"You can fire a gun but you can't use chopsticks?" Dean asked incredulously, raising both eyebrows. He stood, took the chopsticks from Sam's hand and walked out to the kitchen to throw them in the trash and pick up a fork from the drawer instead. Returning, Dean tapped Sam lightly on the head with the fork before he gave it to him and smiled gently. Sam smiled in return and huffed a little before attempting to eat the rapidly cooling takeout.

Dean ate quickly, as per usual – but tasted nothing. He spent most of the time watching Sam struggle to use even the fork.

It was heartbreaking.

It was as though he were-

Dean took a breath and choked on a mouthful of rice. Sam patted him on the back diligently, looking concerned until he stopped choking.

It was as though he were brain damaged.

Dean moved quickly to grab a nearby folder, chopsticks still in hand. It was Sam's psych file from the asylum. Sam watched curiously as Dean flicked through the pages inside. The older Winchester brother had poured over the file earlier in the day, but this was a new realisation; a new lens through which to look at the evidence.

He read once again about Sam's admittance to the asylum. Phrases that jumped out at him were 'court-ordered commitment to inpatient mental health facility', 'psychotic break', 'paranoid schizophrenia' and 'John Doe'.

They hadn't even realised who he was. Dean smirked at that.

Sam put a hand on the folder right where Dean was reading and pulled out a sheet of paper.

"Sam…" Dean chastened lightly, but paused as Sam gave it to him.

"You want me to read this?" Dean asked. Sam nodded. Dean flicked an eyebrow skywards, but nonetheless read the sheet of paper. A frown appeared on his forehead, and it deepened as he read to the bottom of the page.

"You were going to have a brain scan today?" Sam just ate another awkward forkful of chow mein and stayed silent. Dean, reminded that he had food of his own to finish, munched away while reading through the rest of the file once more.

Unable to finish what was on his plate, Sam rested the fork on it and nudged it away. Dean peered over the file.

"You're not done yet," he said, his voice unequivocal. Sam frowned and huffed.

"You're not done yet. Eat," Dean repeated. "I want at least three quarters of that plate emptied."

"They're pretty big portions," Bobby said, defending Sam's decision to stop. Dean gave Bobby a look that said, 'Are you really going to argue over baby's dinner?' and Bobby looked away – deciding that this was, indeed, a battle he didn't want to be part of.

Sam looked miserably at the plate, picked up the fork and slowly munched through three more mouthfuls. After that, he pulled a face, replaced the fork and nudged the plate away again.

"I said three quarters," Dean said, at which point Bobby growled and picked up the plate. He also picked up his own and headed for the kitchen, while Dean made short work of what remained on his.

Sam slipped out of the chair and crept across the floor to sit at Dean's feet. As he had done earlier that day, he rested his head against Dean's knee. As though it were second nature, Dean reached down with one hand and stroked through his brother's hair.

"Bobby? Know anyone who can get us a brain scan on the quick, no questions?" Dean asked as Bobby returned to the table and removed Dean's plate also. Bobby shrugged.

"You know who I'm gonna suggest, right?"

"Bela." Dean spat the name like it was something distasteful. But he felt Sam fidget at his feet and knew that he had no choice.

He _hated_ having no choice.

"Do you think she'd take something in Dad's lockup as payment?" Dean called. He was answered by the clattering of plates and Bobby stomping back to the front room.

"You can't do that! That stuff is in there for a reason, Dean! Hell, some of that stuff's so dark, it'll take off your hand before you open the box!" Dean shrugged at this.

"I ain't gonna be opening the box," he said. "You made those boxes for Dad, right?" Bobby nodded tersely in response. "Can you make me another one? I've got an idea…"

"I don't think I like your ideas, Dean," Bobby scowled. Dean smirked.

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Bobby said, leaving Dean staring at the wall feeling rather bested.

"Did you call Ellen?" Dean called as Bobby ran hot water into the sink to clean the dishes. The muttered 'shit!' was all Dean needed to hear to know that he hadn't, but it was followed up by,

"No – I was busy getting shot at!"

Dean closed one eye at that – _that_ shot had hit the mark. Sam shuffled uncomfortably closer to Dean and clung to his leg.

"Want a job done, ya gotta do it yourself," said Dean in response, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He flicked through his contacts book and stopped on Ellen's number, pressing the 'call' button. He waited a few moments, until he heard a familiar voice at the other end of the line.

"Hey, Ellen. It's Dean."

"Hey, Dean. Bobby told me about Sam. How is he?" Ellen asked. Dean paused before answering,

"He's alive. I think that's the best we can hope for right now."

"Is there anything I can do?" Ellen asked. Dean took a deep breath and said,

"Yeah, you can send over more information on that case you told Bobby about. We think Sam and those other cases might be linked."

"Sure. You want me to fax it?"

"Hey – me and Sam are the kids of the New Millennium. We can take e-mail, unlike _some old codgers_," Dean said loudly, hoping Bobby would hear him. There was a snort from the kitchen, confirming that the barb had hit home. Ellen laughed richly at the end of the line.

"Alright. You boys let me know if there's anything else I can do. Look after Sam."

"I always do," Dean said quietly.

"I know," Ellen said. "You boys are the only two things your Daddy did right." Dean thanked her quietly and hung up. He absently brushed Sam's hair again as he searched through his phone for Bela's number. He'd have been happy to delete her from his contacts – but he couldn't deny that, for all her faults, she was a useful person to know.

"Hello?" said the richly accented voice at the end of the line.

"Bela. Dean," Dean said, tersely.

"Dean! Well, how lovely. Long time no see!" Bela said, her voice like a cat's purr. Dean licked his lips and a frown creased his brow.

"I need you to do something for me," he said, his voice still clipped.

"I'm not about to drop dead yet if that's what you mean, Dean," Bela smiled smugly.

"Oh, if only," Dean smirked. "No, I need a brain scan,"

"I could have told you that a long time ago, darling," Bela said, a crafty lilt in her voice.

"It's not for me. It's for Sam," Dean said, ignoring her attempt to get under his skin, though he wanted nothing more than to come out with a smart answer.

"Oh. And he's normally the balanced one," she said lightly. Dean bit his tongue on the answer his mind immediately prepared.

"Can you do it? No questions asked?" Dean asked.

"Oh, I can do it. But it'll cost you," she said.

"How about a nice, cursed item?" Dean suggested.

"I'm listening…" replied Bela, her curiosity peaking.

"Well – you know we moved the lockup, right? After your little friends came to take a certain rabbit's foot? I give you one lock box item from the lockup and you get me a no questions asked brain scan. Deal?"

"Only if I can choose the box," Bela said. Dean smiled,

"You choose the box," Dean grinned and shook his head – surprised at how well this was going.

"Okay. You're at Bobby Singer's?"

"Yeah." Dean was tempted to ask how she knew that, but decided against it. He didn't actually want to talk to her any more than he had to.

"I'll drop by tomorrow and pick you both up," Bela said.

"Okay. Fine."

"That'll cost you extra, by the way."

"…Fine. Bill me," Dean said, and hung up. He tossed his cell phone onto the table and looked over Sam's notes once more.

As Bobby re-entered, drying his hands on a tea towel, Dean asked him if he would pass him Sam's laptop. Bobby did so without question, and Dean passed Sam the cable for the modem. Sam looked at it pensively.

"It goes down there," Dean pointed to a socket on the skirting board. Sam put it in obediently and turned back to peer at what Dean was doing as the laptop powered up.

Dean and Bobby spent several further hours studying the notes Ellen had e-mailed over. Finally, a plan in place for the following day, Dean leaned back in his chair.

He hated the research portion of what they did. That was normally Sammy's gig – but Sam wasn't capable and so Dean had no choice but to take up the slack.

* * *

Dean moved his legs absently, preparing to stand and nudged Sam as he did so. He'd entirely forgotten that his brother was there; he hadn't moved for at least the past hour. Sam was rudely knocked off his perch – which still consisted of Dean's knee – and woke up with a start. He looked around wildly for a moment, until Dean touched his head to settle him.

Dean didn't know whether to make a smart comment at Sam's reaction or just settle with accepting that for the cute that it was. He decided on the latter and said,

"We've got a big day tomorrow, Sasquatch. Time for bed." Sam nodded tiredly. Dean thought for a moment before asking,

"Those attacks really take it out of you, huh?

"How many have you had?"

Sam was too tired to speak, even in his now disjointed way, so instead he held up his fingers. He didn't seem to be quite sure whether he should be holding up three fingers or four as he kept switching, but it at least went some way to answering Dean's question.

Dean stood and stretched. Sam stumbled to his feet also and immediately put one hand into Dean's belt. He rubbed his face with the other hand, and Dean smiled softly. Bobby pretended not to notice this as he got to his own feet.

"I'm sure you'll understand why I'm going to lock my bedroom door tonight," he said. Dean nodded as Bobby left for his own room. After a moment, Dean led Sam towards the bedroom, as his brother didn't seem to be making that step on his own. Sam pulled back, tugging on Dean's belt.

"I don't want it…"

"Don't want what?"

"That room… salt it… Needs more salt…

"Demons are eating it…" Sam said. Dean growled softly.

"There's nothing in there, Sammy."

"There is! I'm not – I don't want to…" Sam pulled back, and this time he pulled Dean with him.

"Sam!"

"I won't! Won't go into the, in the…eating, I…

"They'll get me!"

"Nobody is going to get you, Sam," Dean said firmly.

"My… Demons in me…"

"Sam, you don't have a demon in your head," Dean said, scowling. "Would you stop?"

Sam let go of Dean's belt and sank to his knees, looking at the bedroom.

"I won't…I won't my eyes…close, my eyes closed…I won't…

"It'll take me…It'll take Bobby, what…What if it…takes Dean, what if it takes Dean?" Sam jabbered, covering his eyes as though he saw horrible things that nobody else could.

"Sammy, get up," Dean said roughly.

"What if it takes Dean? What if it…it takes…I'd dead…No dead…" Sam continued his murmurings even as Dean dragged him to his feet.

"I will prove to you that there's no demon in you, Sam," Dean said as he pulled Sam by his sleeve towards fireplace. He roughly pulled Sam around and stood him by the fire.

"Stay there," he said, and walked several paces away. Sam looked frightened and abandoned, and Dean left it slightly too long before he said,

"Now come to me."

Sam looked wary, but did as he was told. When he reached Dean he put a hand back in his belt and looked at him curiously. Dean pointed back to where Sam had been standing - to the Devil's Trap permanently painted onto Bobby's ceiling. Sam raised his eyes to gaze at it.

"If you had a demon in you, you wouldn't have been able to leave that circle," Dean said. "So trust me. You don't have a demon in your head.

"You trust me, don't you Sammy?" At Dean's words, Sam sighed out a breath and nodded. Satisfied for now, he walked back across the room to the fireplace, flumped onto the floor and curled up directly beneath the Devil's Trap.

"_Now_ what are you doing?" Dean asked, exasperated.

"Can't out, can't in," Sam said, resting his head on his arm. He traced the natural grain of the wooden floor with his finger as Dean looked on, staggered.

"You're not that far gone then," said Dean thoughtfully.

"But you can't sleep there."

Sam sat up and gave this comment some thought. Dean prepared to take him back to the bedroom, but Sam had a different plan. He stood, walked to the kitchen and opened and closed cupboards until he found what he was looking for. Dean merely rubbed his forehead, frustratedly waiting to see what would come of his brother's murmuring and restlessness.

Sam returned with a sack of salt. Dean raised both hands in the air in exasperation and rubbed his head as Sam started to pour a wide circle of salt all around the outside of the projection of the Devil's Trap. As the two ends met, Sam stopped and looked up at Dean for approval.

"Can't out, can't in?" asked Dean, looking irritated. Sam nodded. Dean shook his head.

"You know, sometimes you're still scarily sane. And you're still not sleeping out here on the floor," Dean said, watching as Sam put the sack of salt to one side and climbed into his circle of salt.

"They can't…can't get me…

"Safe…" he looked up at Dean, and exposed his palms to him.

"_Safe_…"

Dean felt a pang of guilt. _Safety_. How could he begrudge his brother in a quest for security? It was all they'd ever wanted. The only safety they'd ever known was in each other's presence, in being together and inseparable, in their fight to stay together at all costs.

And in that moment, Dean sought safety too.

"I give up," he said, shaking his head. Sam watched worriedly as Dean walked from the room towards the bedroom. There was a moment of rustling, and then Dean came back into view- carrying blankets and pillows.

"Move over," said Dean, stepping into the circle of salt and throwing a pillow at Sam. He caught it, looking bemused as Dean dropped a blanket on him as well.

"I said that you can't sleep here, but I didn't finish. I meant to say '_alone_'," Dean said, taking off his jacket and throwing it over a chair. He lay down on his back, mentally preparing himself for an uncomfortable night, and drew his blanket over himself. Sam fussed for a moment, redressing the salt circle before he curled up again, pulling his pillow under his head and tugging his blanket over his shoulders. Dean closed his eyes as Sam fidgeted next to him.

"Stop that," he said, opening one eye. Sam smiled, and it went all the way to his eyes.

"Safe…" he mumbled.

"Yeah, 'safe'. Now go to sleep," Dean said as he smirked and closed his eye again. After a moment, Sam prodded his brother gently in the arm. The fire was burning down in the grate, and the warm light spilled across their blanketed forms. After receiving no response, Sam prodded again – only to find his hand slapped.

"Stop it," Dean said, frowning. Sam pushed his face into his pillow and laughed. It was the first time Dean had heard _that_ in weeks, and he didn't have the heart to suggest that he stop.

After a few more minutes, as Dean was finally drifting between consciousness and sleep, Sam tapped his brother's shoulder. Dean sighed and opened his tired eyes.

"Safe…" uttered Sam, and as Dean looked at him he saw tears on his face.

"Safe," Dean nodded, and tapped his brother's cheek softly.

"Now go to sleep," Dean said, and closed his eyes a final time.

There were no more taps or prods or fidgets, and as far as Dean knew Sam slept the whole night through, dreaming dreams of picket fences and lush green grass.

* * *

_Thank you for reading to the end of chapter two! Hopefully I've still got your interest – chapter three will be up next week! :) _


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: 'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry, I'm sorry! D: I know, I'm late this time. Sorry… On the up side though, you'll still get another chapter on Friday :)

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

* * *

_**Eyes of a Stranger**_

_**Chapter Three**_

When Bobby stumbled out of his room early in the morning, he saw Sam sleeping spread-eagled in a pile of salt, his body covered in two blankets. He raised his eyebrows and returned to his bedroom to throw on some clothes.

Winter was still a distant fleeting thought, and the sun was beating down across the junk yard. It was unseasonably hot, and it was possible to see wisps of heat rising from the metal of cars, even this early in the morning. Bobby could hear banging from the smithy, and saw Dean bashing at something with a hammer on the other side of the yard.

As he neared the young man, he could just about see what he was doing. Even if he _was_ doing it wrong.

"Didn't your old man ever teach you how to link a chain?" Bobby asked, leaning against a wooden supporting column. Dean looked up.

"Musta been busy when he was giving that lesson," he said, putting down the hammer and looking perplexed. He pulled at one of the cuffs on the anvil, but it was still soft. Dean took his gloves off and threw them down in irritation.

"Give it here," Bobby said, tutting and elbowing Dean out of the way. He donned the gloves and immediately started hammering at the link Dean had inserted.

"What do you want a pair of handcuffs with a five foot chain between them for?" Bobby said as he hammered.

"Heh. Funny you should ask that, Bobby," Dean smirked, rubbing the back of his head. "I spent an hour looking for those this morning.

"They're so I can always keep an eye on Sam."  
"You're gonna chain him to ya?" Bobby said, looking up. He didn't look as weirded out by the suggestion as Dean had thought he might be. He shrugged.

"I figured.

"I can't have him doing what he did yesterday again, Bobby. If he kills innocent people, he'll never forgive himself – and he's likely to get shot in the process," Dean said. "I can't let that happen, Bobby.

"I can't."

"I know, Dean," Bobby said, plunging the cuffs and chain into a bucket of water Dean had prepared. They sizzled as the iron cooled, and steam rose quickly from the body of water. Bobby pulled them out, finished, and checked the links.

"They'll hold," he said, and put them on the anvil. Dean smiled gratefully.

"They ain't pretty though – you want to-"

They were interrupted by a cry from within the house. Like a shot, and with lighting reactions, Dean ran toward the origin of the scream, gun in hand.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed as he kicked open the back door. He could see right through to the front room, and saw Sam sitting on the floor with his hands over his face. Dean ran through the doorway, wary all the time of the unknown and glancing towards the slightest movements.

"Sam! What is it?" he said, crouching beside his brother. Sam panted before replying,

"Eyes! Eyes!"

"What about-"

"_Eyes!_"

Dean looked at his brother's hands and at the salt that he knelt in. He hung his head and put his gun away, just as Bobby came running in with his shotgun.

"It's all right, Bobby," Dean called, pulling Sam's hands away from his face. Bobby stood at ease and watched as Dean lifted Sam's chin and brushed the salt off his face.

"You ass, Sam…" Dean sighed as he brushed off Sam's hands and helped him to his feet.

"It's like you're five again," Dean said, guiding his brother towards the kitchen. He ran water into the sink and briefly cleaned his hands before pushing Sam's face down towards the basin. Running water into his hands, Dean first rinsed off Sam's face and then filled his palm again. He placed the palm full of water over his brother's left eye and said,

"Blink." Sam blinked his left eye, protesting the whole time.

"Blink," Dean said again more firmly, and this time the protests were much quieter. He emptied his palm, refilled it and did the same with Sam's right eye. Finally, he adjusted the tap so that only a trickle of water fell and pushed Sam's face under it firmly. For a few moments, the water ran over his brother's eyes, until eventually Sam pulled away and blinked swollen eyes at his brother. They were red and sore-looking, and Dean pushed his eyelids up to inspect each one properly.

"They're fine. Wash your hands," he said, grabbing a broom from the corner. He headed for the front room and shook out the blankets and pillows before sweeping up the salt now spread all over the floor.

"That's what happens when you decide to sleep in salt, Sammy," called Dean, as the pile of salt in the centre of the floor grew. Sam stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.

"Don't rub 'em," Dean said, passing his brother and pulling out a dustpan and brush from a kitchen cupboard. When Sam didn't stop, Dean pulled his hands down on the way back to the front room and warned,

"I'll tape 'em shut!

"Go get dressed," Dean said exasperatedly as he knelt down to sweep the salt into the pan. Sam retreated to the bedroom slowly, still making the occasional claw at his eyes.

When Dean returned to the kitchen to empty the salt into the trash, he found Bobby looking at him, his shotgun broken over his arm. Dean deliberately avoided the look, until he head the clank of metal and saw the cuffs dangling from Bobby's hands.

"I didn't think I'd agree with you – but I do," he said, and handed Dean the cuffs. Dean took them and nodded.

"I need to drive through to Minnesota. I've got to research the case," Dean said, looking over his shoulder to see if Sam was in earshot. He wasn't, and so Dean continued. "Bela's coming over to pick up Sam for a brain scan. I can't be in two places at once…"

"You want me to go with Sam?" Bobby said, incredulously. "After what happened yesterday?"

"I think he'll be okay. He realises now that you're Bobby and that you're not gonna hurt him. I can't take him on recon, Bobby – how am I going to explain the fact that I have a guy chained to me?

"Please. It's only on the border, I'll be back by nightfall.

"You're the only person I can trust with Sam.

"I don't want to leave him at all, but I don't know how much time we have," Dean said, and paused as he played back his last words in his head. He swallowed and looked at Bobby.

The older man rubbed his chin firmly.

"I don't know who's more crazy – me or Sam," he replied. Dean smiled and patted Bobby on the shoulder gratefully.

Bobby glanced over Dean's shoulder and nodded to indicate that Sam was present. Dean sniffed and turned to find his brother gazing at him calmly from the doorway. His eyes were still red and watery, but at least he wasn't clawing at them anymore.

"Sammy, I need to talk to you," Dean said, and walked through to the front room. He put the custom cuffs down on the table and Sam eyed them, wary, as he followed obediently and sat next to his brother when Dean sat down on the sofa.

"Sam. We need to talk about where you were."

"When I was away from Dean?"

"When you were away from Dean," Dean nodded. Eventually, Sam nodded nervously and Dean continued.

"Do you remember where you were? Do you remember what happened, how you left the motel?" Sam gazed for a moment, then said,

"Sleeping. Wake, on my own. No Dean."

"Did I go out?"

"No. No note, no Dean.

"Dean gone, I'm...I'm out, I go door…and open door… Gone, then.

"Somewhere else."

Dean rubbed his eyebrow. This was more difficult than he'd imagined. Not only could Sam clearly not communicate very well, but Dean was having to attempt to interpret it in any number of ways.

"So you woke up and I wasn't there," Dean said. "And you went to the door, opened it and ended up somewhere else." Sam nodded.

"Why wasn't I there?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged.

"The way I remember it, it's you who wasn't there," Dean said. Sam looked confused.

"There were demons. And a box. The box. They put…box, in with…with the box in other people," Sam said, trying to depict what he was saying with his hands, but that was more than Dean could even attempt to interpret.

"Wait, wait – there were other people with you?" Dean asked. Bobby had approached by this time, and he and Dean shared a look of worry between each other.

"Yellow Eyes?" Bobby asked. Sam looked struck at the mention of the demon's name and immediately flew to the bag of salt in the corner. Grabbing it and hefting it up, he proceeded to put a wide line of salt on the window sill, muttering all the time,

"No, Yellow Eyes, no take… Mine, it's mine…All I…have, I it's…Not allowed!"

"Sam. It's all right. Come sit back down," Dean said, casting worried eyes at his brother. "You remember, we talked about this. Yellow Eyes is dead." Sam slapped his hand to his forehead. He was shaking so much he had to put the bag of salt down. He closed his eyes, and his face wore such a look of pain that for a moment, Dean thought he was having another attack.

Dean got quickly to his feet and took his brother's elbows.

"Look at me, Sam…

"Sammy, look at me.

"Safe, Sammy. Safe," Dean said softly. Sam opened his eyes and tears rolled down his face. He patted the pendant around Dean's neck and rubbed it gently in his fingers.

"Safe…" he said, glancing up to catch his brother's gaze. Dean nodded encouragingly and herded Sam back to the sofa.

"How many people were there with you, Sam?" Dean asked quietly when they were both sitting again. Sam shrugged and wiped his face on his sleeve. He looked at his fingers thoughtfully and eventually lifted seven.

"You're sure?" Dean asked. Sam nodded.

"Bobby, that means there's two more of them out there," Dean looked up at their mentor. Suddenly Dean's coming trip to Minnesota took on a darker and even more dangerous edge.

"Sam… I have to go to Minnesota. We think that's where you were taken," Dean said. Sam sat more upright, a worried look on his face.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Dean said in confirmation, mistaking Sam's real meaning.

"No. No, _me_… me – me with Dean," Sam said. Dean rolled his eyes. He'd known this was coming, and he'd already prepared his rebuttal.

"You can't come with me Sam, it's too dangerous. I can't look after us both with you like this," he began, even as Sam opened his mouth to argue.

"I'll be back by tonight, I promise and you need to go with Bobby to get your brain scan. You need to-"

"No…"

"That's the way this is playing out, Sammy, it's-"

"No!"

"You're going, even if I have to knock you out-"

"No! Dean, if…danger, if… not safe…Please…

"Please…" Sam begged. "_Not_ safe…Not safe… No take the…No to the…" he looked at his hands frustratedly – his communication issues were worsening. That aggravation wasn't lost on Dean, and he shook his head as Sam struggled to form another sentence.

"Please, not to go. I'm know Dean, I'm… Not go to danger. Not to find answer. I'm fine," Sam said finally, and Dean pressed a palm to his own forehead in frustration.

"You're not fine, you're sure as Hell _not fine_, Sammy," he said. "You're going to go with Bobby and you're going to do every single thing he says. Okay? You listen to Bobby the same way you listen to me. No ifs or buts or maybes," he continued. Sam reached out for the pendant around Dean's neck and rubbed it again.

"Safe…" he said. "Safe!" he repeated, as he tightened his fist around the Egyptian mask of protection. He looked at Bobby frantically and said,

"Safe…"

"I'll find some charms to lay on him, Sam, don't worry," Bobby said. Tears in his eyes, Sam turned his gaze back to Dean.

"Come back…safe," he forced. Dean slapped his hands on Sam's shoulders and rubbed his face with his thumbs.

"I will, I promise," Dean said softly. Then it was his turn to look up at Bobby.

"Look after him, Bobby. He's all I've got," Dean said, and at that Sam threw his arms around his brother and wept. Dean closed his eyes. It was heartbreaking to see his brother so dependent, so utterly lost without Dean's guidance. Dean had watched him go through the stages of dependency, idolisation and then independence as a child, and this…

This was like regression. Again and again, Dean came back to the idea that Sam had been brain damaged somehow. The results of the scan would prove or disprove that – but Dean's chest constricted at the idea of what it might uncover.

"I've got to go," Dean said, and pulled away from his brother's touch. Sam looked bereft, and because Dean couldn't bear to see that look on his face, he set his eyes on Bobby.

"You'll have to stall Bela for payment. I'm not finished screwing her yet," Dean said, standing to grab his coat. He paused and thought about his choice of words, adjusted his collar – and smirked.

"Stall Bela? I've got more chance of winning the lottery," Bobby said. Dean didn't respond. He picked up the cuffs and sat back down beside Sam.

"These are a little different from yesterday. They're longer now – see?" and Dean stretched out the chain between his hands as far as he could. Sam nodded.

"They're to protect you. And me. And Bobby. You'll always be chained to one of us until we figure out what the Hell's going on," Dean said. With his next sentence, he put independence back in Sam's hands for a moment.

"Is that okay with you?"

Sam paused before nodding nervously. Dean nodded approvingly, and let Sam choose which cuff he wanted and allowed him to cuff himself. He understood that, psychologically, Sam would be less likely to feel like a chained prisoner if he was given choices.

After all – his Sammy was still in there somewhere. Dean had to cling to that expectation, that understanding. He dare not consider another answer.

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder and stood. He picked up the laptop and headed for the door; as he did so, Bobby called,

"Wait there! I've got some charms for you."

Dean paused as Bobby sorted through a small wooden chest. He pulled out a selection of small trinkets, eventually laying hands on a single cat's eye shell and a silver crescent dangling from a bracelet made of flat silver beads. He tucked them both into Dean's hand and looked at him meaningfully.

"You call me if you run into trouble," he said, keeping Dean's eyes with his gaze. The young man nodded and instantly donned the bracelet. He put the shell in his pocket, and as he did so he withdrew a small set of keys – those to Sam's cuffs. He put them in Bobby's hand in return and with that he was gone, heading out to his beloved Impala before any more could be said.

Sam stood and went to the window, placing one palm on it and letting the five feet of chain drag behind him. He watched as the Impala threw up a cloud of dirt behind it and drove away towards the main gates of the junk yard. The bright sun slid through the window lazily, and it clearly illuminated the trauma on Sam's face at the enforced separation.

Bobby took a deep breath and moved to stand with Sam. Sam looked down and tugged at his chain disconsolately.

"He'll be back for you. Wild horses wouldn't keep that one away," Bobby said gently. Sam nodded. After a moment, he tugged up his chain and handed the other cuff to Bobby.

"Thank you," said Bobby. They looked at each other for a moment as Bobby put on the cuff.

"Hmm. Kinky," he said, looking it over. Sam smiled and looked uncomfortable.

"Oh don't worry. I definitely don't swing that way, boy," Bobby said, and slapped Sam on the shoulder. This time, Sam smiled without discomfort.

* * *

Shortly after Dean's departure, they were disturbed by the sound of a red sports car pulling up outside the house; gravel cracked and spat beneath the car's tyres. Bela stepped out of the car and closed the door behind her, looking around distastefully at the dry dirt and grit around her. Using her key fob she locked the car doors and walked towards the house, but Bobby opened the door before she reached it.

"Hello Bobby," she said, smiling. Bobby nodded.

"Bela," he said, curtly. Bela glanced around the older man and said,

"Where's Dean?"

"He had to go somewhere," Bobby said, not letting anything show on his face.

"And Sam?"

"Is here. We're ready to go."

"Sam without Dean? Goodness, what is the world coming to?" Bela said, raising her eyebrows. She moved back towards the car, and Bobby led Sam out of the house. He looked around, afraid to be out in the open. He fidgeted terribly, and twisted his hands together as though they were rosary beads.

"What's wrong with him?" Bela asked as she turned and laid eyes on the younger Winchester.

"That's what we need to find out," replied Bobby as he shut the front door behind Sam. The boy jumped, and Bobby out his hand on his arm to reassure him. Bela raised an eyebrow.

"There is the matter of payment, Bobby," she said. Bobby sniffed.

"Dean said he'd settle it with you later."

Bela stopped dead and turned.

"That's not the way I work Bobby, you know that. I don't deal in credit."

Her eyes rested on Sam and he looked up at her. There was no recognition on his face, nothing to show that he knew her at all. She stepped forward, her curiosity peaking and slowly walked towards Sam casually. He turned his cheek to her as she approached, looking nervous.

"Bela…" warned Bobby. "This isn't the Sam you know."

Bela paid no attention to Bobby's warning. She stopped in front of Sam and picked up the slack of the chain.

"This is interesting, Bobby. Since when did you…" she trailed off and looked suggestively at the older man.

"Oh, shut up," huffed Bobby. She looked at Sam, whose eyes were now narrowed.

"I bet you were the kid who pulled the wings offa butterflies, weren't ya?" Bobby said, speaking to Bela but watching Sam carefully. Bela merely smiled and pulled the chain.

And with that, Sam snapped. He grabbed his end of the chain and pulled, hard and fast, dragging the shocked Bela with it. He slapped her hard across the face, raised his hand high in the air, struck her hand from the chain and dived forward, his eyes wild and a deep growl in his throat.

It was all Bobby could do to yank on his end of the chain, unbalancing Sam and pulling him unexpectedly over onto his backside. He braced his feet as Sam snapped and growled and dragged at the chain.

Bela stood well back, speechless, a row of three welts already rising on her cheek.

"You weren't kidding," she breathed, looking up at Bobby with wide eyes. She immediately moved to straighten her hair and dust herself off – and it was clear from her reaction that she was more shaken than she would have liked to admit.

"Stop it, Sam!" Bobby bellowed. The boy paused, and sank to the ground, breathing heavily. There were bloody grazes on his wrist where he had pulled against the restraint of the cuff, and his nail beds bled where he had dug and clawed at the ground in an attempt to get at Bela.

"I'm didn't..." he said, looking at his hands. "Bobby, I'm didn't…?"

"No, you didn't. Not this time," Bobby sighed, and offered the frightened boy his hand to help him up.

"The price on this job just went up," said Bela, and indignantly pulled her car door open. "_He's_ sitting in the back behind you and _you're_ keeping an eye on him, Bobby," she said.

Bobby dusted off Sam's shoulders and said,

"Have you got any weapons in that car?"

Bela raised her hands.

"What do you expect?" she asked curtly.

"You're gonna want to move them out of the cabin," said Bobby as he pushed Sam ahead of him.

* * *

The Impala felt empty. Dean tucked into a McDonald's breakfast bagel with one hand on the wheel, his thoughts entirely on Minnesota - and Sam.

Dean had become used to driving alone while Sam had been away at college – Dad in the truck in front and him alone in the Impala a hundred yards or so behind. So much had happened since then. Dad had died, Sam had returned to the fold and the 'family business' and the brothers had become closer than ever. They'd barely been parted in two years.

A week without Sam had been difficult enough – not knowing where he was or if he was safe before he'd finally found out that he was possessed. The past two weeks had been utter purgatory – Dean was convinced that Hell itself couldn't have been worse. Nobody had seen Sam, nobody had even known where to look. Dean had even been morbidly checking the obits of every town they'd ever visited, just in case the unthinkable… Well.

It was through this search that he'd actually found him in the end – but not in the obits. It was mildly humorous to Dean that the obits were always next to the mispers. It was here that he'd finally found a clue to Sam's whereabouts – a massive giveaway, in fact. A small ad in missing persons with a one inch square picture of Sam had 'Do you know this man?' written beneath it, some brief details and a telephone number.

From there it had been simple steps to find him and spring him. Now, however, it looked as though the real rescue was about to begin.

What was going on in Minnesota? Sam and Dean's last trip to Minnesota hadn't exactly been fun – Sam had been kidnapped by some redneck hillbillies with a far too obsessive passion for hunting, and he _still _hadn't let Dean live down getting his ass kicked by a twelve year old girl.

Whatever was happening, there were two more people out there like Sam, and five others who were already dead. Dean had to make sure that Sam didn't become a statistic, but while doing that he had to find out exactly what was wrong and how to fix it. He also had to find the other two people and save them from themselves. By all accounts, there were some seriously disturbed people out there right now, with an aggression and fear issues the size of Mississippi.

Dean put the empty bagel wrapper in the bag between his legs and pulled out the coffee.

The first town on his trail was Marshall. He was still about seventy miles out, so he had plenty of time to think. He'd already put on some Motorhead in an attempt to stop himself _over_-thinking the situation, but it hadn't really helped.

The first thing to do, as always, was to find out more about the first victim. Dean put the coffee back in the paper bag between his legs and fished around in the paperwork scattered around on Sam's seat. Flicking his eyes between the road and the papers, he finally pulled out a scribbled note and looked at it.

Ezekiel Smith. Twenty one years old – no link to Sam there. College student at Lawrence University, studying for a Bachelor of Arts degree. Came home for the weekend and shot three people dead, including his mother. Okay, so there _was_ a link there, thought Dean, as the town of his and Sam's birth once again came back to haunt them. Two older brothers and a younger sister. No link. Divorced parents. No link. Ezekiel Smith seemed like your average, middle-class guy – but didn't they always?

Dean put down the piece of paper and picked the coffee back up. He supped from it thoughtfully.

"_Would you have done it?" Bobby said as Dean tapped on the laptop's keyboard. Sam was gently dozing at Dean's feet and so heard nothing._

"_Hmm?" Dean responded, frowning and looking up from a document that Ellen had e-mailed through. _

"_If Sam had shot himself…" Bobby trailed off. Dean looked back at the laptop screen, but he wasn't really seeing the open document. He rubbed the wrist rest thoughtfully with the very tip of his middle finger._

"_He didn't, so it doesn't matter," Dean said eventually, and glanced down before returning his attention to the text before him._

"_But would you?" Bobby asked. Dean put his elbows on the table and rubbed his cheek. He sighed and looked crookedly at Bobby._

"_Leave it alone, Bobby."_

"_It's a simple question, Dean."_

_Dean licked his lips and rubbed the laptop's worn space bar with his index finger._

"_Where he goes, I follow, Bobby. You know that." he said, finally looking the older man in the eye. Bobby nodded._

"_That's what I'm-"_

"Shit, shit, _shit_! Son of a _Bitch_!" Dean swore as he dropped what was left of the hot coffee all over his jeans instead of putting it back in the bag. He continued to swear like a trooper while pulling the Impala over to the side of the road and then leaping out of it and jumping around for a while, pulling his jeans away from his crotch. He threw the top of his body down onto the trunk and put his face into the crook of his arm.

"_God_… I'm glad Sam wasn't here to see that," he croaked.

* * *

Sam rested his forehead against the window, looking out at the road speeding by below them. Every now and then Bobby would call back to him and check that he was okay. Very rarely did he get more than a small noise in reply, but a response was a response.

"So… What happened to change him into such a bastard?" Bela asked, changing gear. Bobby shrugged.

"We don't know yet. We just found him like this."

"Yes, I knew he was missing," Bela said. Bobby looked at her quizzically.

"My spirit friends were feeling very talkative," she replied, grinning.

"Don't suppose it occurred to you to offer help?" Bobby asked. Bela shrugged.

"I didn't know if Dean could afford it."

"You mean ya didn't think he had anything left to steal," Bobby said distastefully. Bella sighed.

"You have your way, Bobby, I have mine," she said.

"Mmm…" murmured Sam in the back of the car. His brow furrowed and he clenched his fists tightly, closing his eyes against the suddenly sickening sight of the quickly passing road and brush.

"You okay back there?" called Bobby. He didn't receive a reply and turned in his seat to see Sam pushing his clenched fists against his temples, taking deep breaths as he curled up tightly on the back seat.

"Sam?" Bobby asked, and Sam moaned in response, his breathing shaky and infrequent.

"Bela, pull over," Bobby said, undoing his seatbelt. Bela flicked her eyes between the road and Bobby and said,

"Why? What's happening?"

"I said pull over!" Bobby bellowed, turning as far in his seat as he could.

"Hold on there, Sam, we're pulling over," he said, able to offer little more as comfort to the agonised boy in the back of the car. Sam rolled on the back seat, barely conscious as agony ripped and tore through his head. The next thing he knew was hands on his shoulders and another presence in the back of the car.

"Sssstop…it…" Sam begged, as he began hitting his own head with his fists. Bobby grabbed them quickly and held them still as Sam's head rolled on the back of the seat.

"Sssssssstop…" he breathed, and Bobby put his hand behind his head as Sam's nose started to bleed. Somewhere, on the edge of his consciousness, he could hear Bobby's voice, but there was only one person he wanted.

"Deeeean…" he forced, but still the only voice he heard was Bobby's.

"Dean's not here, Sam, but you're gonna be okay, you'll be fine, just keep holding on…" Sam's eyes rolled as Bobby turned his face to him, examining the blood that spilled across his lips and chin.

"Holy shit," said Bobby, and smudged a little of the blood onto his index finger. He rubbed it between finger and thumb and sniffed it gingerly. His look grew even more worried, and he shook his head.

"There's brain fluid in with this blood…" he said. Bela raised her arms exasperatedly.

"You mean there's blood and brain stuff all over the inside of my car?"

Bobby completely ignored Bela – she wasn't worth his attention, considering Sam's condition. The boy squirmed on the back seat as every beat of his heart sent agony through his brain. He clenched his teeth against the cry in his throat.

"You're gonna pass out, Sam, just let it happen…" said Bobby, still trying to support Sam's head. He remembered all too well that he'd injured himself the day before trying to stop the pain. Sam looked at Bobby out of the corner of his eyes, even as his body tautened further and sweat beaded his brow.

Suddenly, as though a switch had been flicked, Sam's consciousness abandoned him entirely. His body relaxed, and Bobby finally let his head rest on the back of the seat.

For a moment, Bobby cast his eyes over Sam's frame. He shook his head and pulled Sam back towards the seat behind shotgun as carefully as he could, belting him in this time. He took off his body warmer and wiped Sam's bloody face with it before folding it roughly and slipping it under the boy's head.

He stepped out of the car and turned, to see Bela standing with her hands on her hips.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't dump you and Sam right here and leave," she said angrily. "This job is already much more trouble than I expected, and the cost is going up by the second."

Bobby leaned back against the car and put his hands in his pockets.

"Well… Maybe because if you dump Sam out here right now, Dean will track you down and kill you?" he said, looking Bela in the eye. She smirked.

"I still say he wouldn't."

"Bela? You have no idea.

"If there's anyone he wouldn't think twice about killing, it'd be someone who abandoned Sam in his hour of need," Bobby said, looking over Bela's head at the lush spruces behind her. Bela looked uncomfortable.

"You want to ask him?" Bobby asked, offering Bela his cell phone. Bela flinched almost impercievably and looked up at Bobby.

"You're not a soulless bitch, Bela. Even _you_ have some respect for family," Bobby said.

"_Don't_ appeal to my better nature, Bobby. You know as well as I do that I don't have one," she snapped, and stalked around to the other side of the car, opening the driver's side door and stepping in with a huff. Bobby smiled to himself, a little triumphant, and looked once more into the back of the car to check on the still unconscious Winchester within.

* * *

_Thank you for continuing to read! Hopefully I'll see you all here again on Friday! :-D_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's Note: **_Erm, you might have noticed that it's not Friday last. Um… sorry x_x I'm hoping that regular posts will resume as normal in the New Year, although they may not be quite as regular as I had hoped (maybe one chapter every 7-14 days? Ugh). Sorry, guys. Thank you for your patience.

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

_

* * *

_

_**Eyes of a Stranger**_

_**Chapter Four**_

Dean stepped out of the men's room at the local gas station and straightened his collar.

"Damned friggin' monkey suit," he muttered under his breath. He checked his ID and walked in a slightly pained manner back towards the Impala. The family jewels were safe, thank God – but he had managed to scald his legs, which made extended walking uncomfortable.

"This is what happens when you're not here to hold my coffee, Sam," Dean said, scowling.

"I've _got_ to get me one of those custom cup holders."

He patted the front of the Impala mournfully. Another thing for him to do as soon as possible was fix up the front bumper on his 'baby'. The windscreen was okay for the moment, but he was likely to be pulled over for either one of the two things if a bored traffic cop laid eyes on them.

Dean unfolded the map of Minnesota he'd just purchased in the gas station and traced his planned route. He was already on the outskirts of Marshall - then it would be on to Montevideo by late morning. Normally, he and Sam would then stay in Canby – the site of the third shooting – and continue the investigation the next day. However, there was nothing normal about this investigation, and he'd promised Sam he'd be back by nightfall.

Dean thought about the logistics of asking Bobby along and the three of them staying in a motel the next night – but there was a certain amount of permanent protection in place around Bobby's house that would be hard, if not impossible, to replicate in a motel.

Ahhh, he'd talk to Bobby about it later. Right now, he had an appointment with a grieving father.

* * *

"Zeke was such a good kid," James Smith said. He and 'Detective Bob Weir' were sitting in his dining room. There was a selection of sympathy cards on the counter behind them and some white calla lilies rested in a tall vase.

"It doesn't make any sense…" James said weakly. "I explained all this to the other detectives…"

"I'm aware of that, but some new evidence has come to light and-"

"What new evidence?" James immediately sat up and looked directly at Dean for the first time since their meeting. Dean ensured that the discomfort did not show on his face as he said,

"I'm not able to disclose that to you at this time."

"But he was my son… A-and Lynne was my wife…" James said. "I have to try to make sense of this, to – to attempt to live…for my other two sons, my daughter. She was on her way to Stanford this year, but now she's not going to make the intake…" he trailed off, clearly a broken man. Dean rubbed his chin and sniffed.

He stood, and headed for a silver photo frame, which contained a photograph of a young man smiling. He had a mop of black hair, blue eyes and held a guitar in his hands.

"This Ezekiel?" Dean asked. James nodded.

"Did he ever show any evidence of mental illness before…?" Dean asked. James shook his head fervently. Tears filled his eyes and fell onto the carpet before him.

"If…If he had problems, he could have just come to us… Th-those other detectives were talking about drugs…PCP… But Zeke wouldn't have touched that stuff," he said. Dean looked into various corners of the room, feeling slightly discomfited in the presence of the man's grief.

"It wasn't drugs, Mr Smith. I can promise you that, at least," Dean said.

"Then what?" asked James.

"…I'll come back to you on that," Dean replied eventually.

"Your son was home for the weekend from the Lawrence University, right?" he asked, changing the subject. James nodded.

"So you wouldn't know if he'd been behaving strangely in the days before the incident?" Dean asked. James paused for a moment.

"We had an agreement that Zeke would call home every Thursday. He missed his call that week, and so I called him on Friday evening to see if he was okay.

"When we spoke, he seemed…distracted. Confused – frightened, even. He could barely even string words together in a sentence. I asked him if he'd been taking something, but he assured me he'd only ever done a little weed.

"He wanted me to come get him. Nobody else would do – he said he couldn't trust anybody else. He told me that he was frightened, that it wasn't safe where he was, that-" James stopped. Dean waited for James to go on.

"Anything you can tell me might help. Any…small detail." Dean pushed. James sighed.

"You'll think I'm crazy. You'll think _Zeke_ was crazy."

"I've…heard some crazy stuff before. Whatever you say won't be the worst of it," Dean reassured. James sighed.

"He said the demons would come for him and put him in a box. _Again_, like it had happened before." The grief-stricken father put his head in his hands. Dean made another visual scan of the room as the man before him wept. He scratched his forehead uncomfortably, looking for an excuse now to leave as soon as possible. He had difficulty enough dealing with his own emotions – being exposed to a stranger's in such a way was almost intolerable.

"Well, Mr Smith. I'd better be going," Dean said, excusing himself. He headed towards the front door and James stood to see him out.

"Please… I've got to have something to tell people… Zeke…Zeke deserves to have his name cleared…" James said, his eyes red and desperate. Dean swallowed and said,

"We'll do what we can. Thank you for the list of Ezekiel-"

"Zeke," James interrupted.

"-Zeke's friends," Dean finished.

As the front door closed behind him, Dean looked up at the bright summer sky, took a deep breath and sighed it out.

"I doubt I'm gonna be able to do anything for you on that one," he said to himself as he began the descent of the front steps.

* * *

Sam had been trying his utmost to stay out of the MRI scanner. He'd struggled and screamed and kicked and yelled - and as Bobby quickly discovered, he was a lot of lad to hold on to. He was just exceptionally fortunate that the attack in the car had left Sam with less than half his strength - so although he was certainly a force to contend with, he wasn't nearly as difficult to control as he might otherwise have been.

He was absolutely terrified. He was utterly horrified at the idea that Bobby was going to put him in a box.

"No! N_nnn_! Box! _No_! No box! Demons take the…! _Demons_!"

"Sam, I-"Bobby had tried to calm him down, but Sam was far too out of his mind to pay any attention.

"Mmm_nno_!! Bobby – d-_ee_mons!" Sam had yelled, clinging to Bobby's shirt. Finally, after Bobby had made a promise of no box and no demons, he'd eventually calmed down to the point where he simply sank to the ground, unable to hold his own weight anymore.

Sam now sat on a chair beside Bobby in a side room, his hands hung between his legs. The hospital was modern and fresh, but this room seemed almost as though it were forgotten about. The curtains were closed, and it seemed to be used more as a storeroom than anything else. There was a single bed at the dead centre of the room. Every now and then Sam would reach up to rub his face, or rest his head on his hand. He was so tired he was shaking. Bobby sighed and said,

"Gone and tired yourself right out, huh?" Sam nodded loosely.

"Can I trust you to stay in here one minute Sam, while I go talk to the doc?" Once again, Sam nodded. Bobby stood and unlocked the cuff that bound his wrist to the chain. He walked around the room slowly, keen to ensure that there were no potential weapons anywhere in the room. Sam had been trained by an ex-marine; he could make a weapon out of anything given the opportunity. Bobby was convinced that he shouldn't be given any.

"Now, you. Get up on that bed," he sighed, helping Sam to his feet and half dragging him the three feet to the bed. He climbed onto it weakly, putting his face straight into the pillow. He lay prone for a moment, until struggling onto his side.

Bobby was fairly convinced he was asleep as soon as he left the room.

As he shut the door behind him, he sighed. Bela stood in front of the door.

"I was wondering when you were going to come out," she said. "Didn't go to plan, did it?"

"Not exactly. Where's that doctor?" Bobby asked. Bela shrugged.

"I only pay him for the scan, not for what he does in between," she replied. Glancing at her watch, she said,

"How much longer is this going to take? I have another appointment before Christmas that I can't miss," Bela said caustically.

"We'll be faster if you can find that doctor for me," Bobby said. Bela raised an eyebrow, and was about to bite back when the doctor turned the corner.

"Ah, Mr Brown. Quite a handful your son, isn't he?" he asked as he came to a stop beside Bela and Bobby.

"Yes, yes he can be," said Bobby, rubbing his bearded chin. "On that note, I, uh… I don't suppose I could get what we talked about earlier…?"

"Of course," said the doctor and walked to the room next door – the room that contained the MRI scanner. He returned after just a few moments with a stainless steel kidney dish containing a full syringe.

"Are you sure _you _want to do this? It's part of the cost if I-" the doctor began, but Bobby interrupted.

"No it's fine. I'll do it."

"Bobby, I'm going back to the car. Call me when you're ready to be picked up. I could be doing something interesting while this is all going on," Bela said, and Bobby nodded.

Bobby slipped back into the darkened side room and closed the door behind him quietly. The young man on the bed hadn't moved an inch, and for that Bobby sighed with relief. The last thing he needed was Sam wandering around the hospital in his current state – who knew what would happen?

Bobby put the kidney dish down on the bedside cabinet and rolled Sam towards him. The boy shifted, but did not wake. Bobby looked along the proud line of Sam's arm and chose a point just behind his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sam. There won't be any demons, and you'll never know about the box," he said, as he flicked the lid off the needle and pushed it into Sam's shoulder.

Sam woke immediately and cast shocked eyes to Bobby. Bobby shook his head.

"You won't know it, but this is for your own good," he said, as Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and unconsciousness came to claim him as it's own.

* * *

The sun shifted across the sky and clouds came and went. From the canteen line, Bobby could see this happening, but all he wanted to do was get back to Sam. He'd seen what the boy was capable of in his current state, and being separated from him made the likelihood of him picking up something and using it as a weapon all the more likely if the sedative wore off.

When he returned to the MRI room, coffee in hand, he saw that Sam had finally been removed from the machine.

"Where is he?" Bobby asked, his heart in his throat.

"Next door. He's still sedated," said the doctor gravely. "Sir, I need to talk to you." The doctor approached with a printout in his hand. Bobby took a deep breath.

"I'm not gonna like this, am I?" he asked. The doctor simply continued to look grim.

* * *

Dean looked up at the sun hanging lower and lower in the sky as he tucked into a chicken burrito, microwaved half to death at a gas station in the town of Canby. From where he sat in the Impala, he could see the aeroplanes taking off from Myers Field Airport. It made him shiver.

"If I never get on a plane again, it'll be too soon," he frowned.

The last time he'd got on a plane, he and Sam –

His mind flitted to Sam and his previous train of thought derailed. He knew that Bobby would look after Sam _almost_ as well as he would, and he knew that Sam understood and acknowledged Bobby for who he was now. However, he also knew that Bela was a double-crossing bitch for a buck and he was pretty sure he knew he wouldn't like the outcome of the brain scan.

He swallowed hard, suddenly put off what was already a poor and very late lunch. He checked his watch. 3:42pm. And he still had two more towns to visit, too. On top of that, in the back of his mind, he could hear Sam's voice;

"Dean. We have to save those people."

Dean rolled his eyes, growled and stuffed what remained of the chicken burrito in his mouth, starting up the engine as he did so.

He really didn't care so much about those other people right now. He just really cared about Sam.

After pulling out onto the main road, Dean reached down for the ice cold Pepsi between his legs. He sipped from it as he assembled the evidence he'd gathered so far in his mind, but the stories were all starting to sound horribly familiar.

Patience Noyes. Thirty one year old female with two children from Montevideo, Minnesota. Came home after staying at her sisters and shot both children dead and injured neighbours on both sides. Shot herself in the head after declaring that her children were safe from The Box.

Ned Baker. Twenty seven year old airport worker from Canby, Minnesota. Took a gun to work and shot fifteen customers, two flight attendants and his own brother before turning the gun on himself. Friends had said he was working extra shifts at the airport to earn money for his wedding to sweetheart Lola Montgomery.

Dean shook his head.

"Is there something you need to tell me, Sammy?" he said, putting the Pepsi back between his legs and wincing. It hadn't escaped Dean's notice that so far every single one of the shooters had killed a member of family when they went postal.

Process of simple elimination meant that if there was a link there, Dean would be the one in Sam's firing line.

_Literally_.

As Dean continued to think over the situation, he pushed the tape he'd been playing before pulling into Canby back into the player. The sound of Megadeth's 'Symphony of Destruction' suddenly played through the Impala's speaker system and Dean nodded approvingly as he passed a sign that said 'Granite Falls – 35m'.

* * *

Sam was entirely unconscious in the back of the car. He had curled up, despite the doctor's advice to lay flat on his back for two hours after the lumbar puncture, and was wearing Bobby's bodywarmer.

Bobby himself was silent as Bela drove. He was distracted and he would lift his cap to rub his head every now and then.

"That's your tell, Bobby," Bela said, glancing at him as she drove.

"Hm? What?" asked Bobby, not really listening.

"That's your tell. Your cap. You lift it and rub your head when you're under pressure."

"Is that right?" was all Bobby said in reply.

They were silent for a little longer. Bobby turned to look over his shoulder at the sleeping boy on the back seat.

"It's not good news then?" Bela nosed. Bobby looked at her irritatedly.

"No," he said. He cast his eyes back to Sam, and they were sad as he watched the stricken boy sleep.

"Care to tell me?" Bela asked.

"So you can get one over on Dean? No," said Bobby firmly.

When they got back to Bobby's house, he had to practically pull Sam from the back of the car. He looked up at Bobby with eyes that spoke volumes of exhaustion and pain, but Bobby couldn't let him give up.

Dean would never, ever forgive him.

It was a struggle to the house, but they made it.

"C'mon Sam, we're nearly there," Bobby said as he pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder and helped him into the front room. He happened to look down at Sam's feet – and whether it was because he was too tired to walk straight or because his condition prevented it now, Bobby didn't know – but Sam's feet were dragging.

Willing it to be his exhaustion, Bobby half dragged Sam across to the sofa and left him there as he turned to Bela. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"So, Bobby. About payment," she said. "Perhaps you should give me something to hold onto in case Dean doesn't come up with the goods."

"You'll get your blood money," Bobby said. They looked at each other across the room for a few moments, but it soon became clear that Bobby wasn't going to budge. Bela's voice lilted as she turned to leave.

"You're right. I will. But if I have to _take_ it, it'll cost more."

Bobby snapped at this.

"Can you really put a price on everything, Bela? Your soul have a price on it? Is there anything you wouldn't do for money?"

"There are some things," she said, turning. "But this isn't one of them."

With that she closed the door behind her as she headed out to her car.

Bobby watched her car disappear towards the main gates through a side window. When he was sure she had gone, he sighed and walked back to the sofa. Sam had once again curled into the smallest form that he could and was nuzzled into a cushion. Bobby swallowed and tapped Sam's legs with the papers from the hospital. Sam barely moved, so Bobby tapped him a little harder.

"You should be lying flat."

"I'm…no want," Sam murmured. Bobby frowned.

"I don't care if you want or not, the doc says you should be flat on your back – in bed. Ya can't be flat on your back on that couch, I know how old it is," he chastised, tapping Sam's legs again. Sam didn't even flinch. He just looked up and Bobby and murmured,

"Door…" Bobby looked at Sam curiously.

"Door…" Sam repeated, and pointed weakly. Bobby looked towards the closed door, for a moment still bemused – and then the fog cleared.

"You want to be able to see when Dean comes home?" he asked. Sam nodded. Bobby shook his head and, unbidden, the thought came to him;

_I don't suppose it matters anyway._

He chased it away, but it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. He dreaded Dean's return to the house, because it meant that he'd have to explain what the brain scan had made patently clear.

Bobby reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the cuffs. He hadn't put them back on Sam as they left the hospital – to be honest, his mind had been elsewhere. Not only that, but at that time Sam hadn't been in any condition to lash out at anybody. It was when he woke properly after his attack that he would be most risky to deal with.

Not knowing what more to do, Bobby sat at the table in the front room and took his cap off, rubbing his head. It didn't look good. It didn't look good at all.

But if there was anything he knew about the Winchesters, it was this: they were tenacious bastards, every one - and if there was the slightest chance that they could reverse what was happening to Sam, Dean wouldn't stop searching until he found it. Bobby nodded to himself and replaced his cap.

* * *

"I knew that Adam had some issues… But I never expected him to pick up a gun and shoot half the people in the store," said Richie. 'Detective Ian Faith' nodded. Richie rubbed his head.

"It's just crazy," he finished, swallowing hard. The sound of the bar around them made it difficult to hear - but if there was one environment Dean didn't have any problem with, it was a busy grogshop. He'd allowed one of the group to buy him a drink under the ruse of 'I'm off duty after this' and had promised to wrap it up as soon as possible. Their evening was just beginning, but Dean's was just ending. As soon as he'd wrapped up here in Madison he would be heading home, to Sam and to bad news.

Bobby's place was the only home Dean had ever really known, the only place he'd ever spent much more than a week in. Dean was just old enough that he remembered some things about the home he'd spent the first four years of his life in - but very little. The pattern on a carpet, or the underside of a cabinet. A brown sofa, or a TV with press-button channels. A tall cupboard and windows he couldn't reach. A table he liked to sit under. The warmth of his mom's cheek on his.

"So," Dean sniffed. "You were Alex's girlfriend?" He was addressing a tall blonde, who reminded Dean altogether too much of Jessica. The irony of this was not lost on Dean, and for the second time that day he was glad Sam wasn't present to see something. The young woman nodded, lines of grief still as clear on her face as they had been when Dean arrived.

"Alex wasn't… He wasn't mean. He didn't make trouble, he didn't have any problems with anyone. He was a really nice guy. I don't…" she trailed off and took a long sip of her margarita. She looked up, and Dean waited for her to begin again.

"I don't know what happened. I still don't know.

"I'll never get it."

"One day, he just didn't come home. He was missing for a week – we put up posters and everything. When he finally came home, he just…turned up on my doorstep looking really wild and scared. When I tried to get him to open up to me, he just couldn't communicate with me about what he needed. He kept talking about The Box, and I tried to get him to tell me what a club had to do with anything –"

"Wait - The Box is a club?" Dean asked, instantly latching on to the words he'd heard so often over the past 24 hours. The three students looked at him curiously and nodded.

"Sure, over in Montevideo. It's a trek, but it's the best club in the area," Richie said. "The five of us used to go over there at least once a week – sometimes Friday _and_ Saturday when we don't have shifts." Dean looked immediately thoughtful.

Montevideo, huh? That was back-tracking quite a long way, and Dean doubted that he could get there by nightfall, investigate and still keep his promise to Sam. However, it was a guaranteed visit the next day.

"You said the five of you," Dean said. "There are only three of you here." Richie looked between his two friends.

"Well, there's me, Anna," he pointed to the blonde, "and Sam." Dean raised an eyebrow instinctively as the brown haired boy who had been silent since his arrival cast his eyes to him.

"But there's also Paige…and there was Alex," Richie said. He nursed his own drink, sadness crossing his face.

"We're lucky to even be here," Richie said. "None of us were sharing a shift with Alex in the store that Wednesday. If we had been… We might be dead.

"He even shot his own sister."

Dean paused before saying,

"I'm sorry for your loss.

"What can you tell me about The Box?"

"It's just a club. Lots of loud music, DJ Happy on a Saturday night and a whole lot of drink. You should try it sometime," said Sam bitterly, taking a swig from a bottle of beer.

"You know, you remind me of someone I know," Dean tried to resist the smirk that tugged at his face.

"Is there any news about Paige?" Richie asked. Dean's face was expressionless as he processed this question.

"News?" he asked, looking back at Richie.

"Don't you guys communicate?" Sam said, still sullenly coddling his beer. Dean had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes – this Sam was _his_ Sam on emo-overdrive.

"I'm sorry. I obviously didn't get the memo," Dean said, fixing his gaze on Sam.

"Paige has been missing since Friday. We thought that maybe she was just really upset about Alex. It's been four days, and nobody's heard anything. Her folks are going crazy," Richie said. He looked up from his beer.

"Can you tell me where I can find her parents?" Dean asked. "I'd like to ask them a few questions – see what I can do to help."

"Sure. They live over in Marshall; they used to live here in town, but they wanted to move closer to Paige's sister – she's just had her first baby," Richie said, grabbing a napkin and writing their address on the back. He pushed it across the table to Dean.

"Can you find out what's happening and let us know? We've…lost one friend, we don't want to lose another," he said, and Dean saw his eyes dampen. He nodded.

* * *

Back in the Impala, Dean immediately got out the map and looked at it again. He snapped down the door of the glove compartment and rooted for a pen – there was something he needed desperately to check. Finally laying hand on a biro, he held the map tightly and drew the lines on it that Bobby had not completed on the main map.

Marshall to Montevideo to Canby to Granite Falls to Madison…and back to Marshall made up the five full lines of the reversed pentacle.

"I'll be damned…" Dean said, immediately putting the pen and map on the seat beside him and starting the Impala, leaving a trail of dust in his wake as he sped out of Madison.

In Granite Falls, the shooter had been Conseja Ramirez – a solid family man who had been unable to work for three weeks due to a diagnosis of 'depression' before he picked up a gun and shot his wife and child – along with two policemen who were called to the scene. He hadn't even had time to shoot himself as the others had before sharpshooters took him out – but there was no doubt in Dean's mind that he would have if he'd been given the chance.

Could Paige Cappello really be going home to kill her family? And if so, when?

* * *

Bobby sat at the table, still looking through books for a solution to Sam's problem – but with a heavy heart. Work was slower now, more difficult; he was distracted by the fact that he was going to have to be the one to pass on bad news to Dean regarding Sam, and he wasn't looking forward to it. All too well he remembered Dean's reaction to Sam's death, and the immediate aftermath. He remembered only too well being shoved away because his sympathy was too painful, his attention too chafing, his attempts to move him on too obvious.

Dean's reaction had not been normal. It was not normal to refuse to deal with a body, it was not healthy to cling to it and talk to it in the way that Dean had the first night, all night.

Eventually, Dean had sold the remainder of his life and his soul to bring his brother back from the clutches of death, thus proving that there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Sam. It was evidence that where Sam was concerned Dean had no limitations, no moral compass – and perhaps no strength if not born from the intense love he had for his brother.

Bobby understood that his wishes were not entirely unselfish, though. He'd buried his mother and his father – whichever of the boys went first, they'd be burying the last remaining member of their family. A part of Bobby morbidly hoped they'd go together, and some time after he himself had shaken off the mortal coil, too.

Now he wasn't sure if that was possible. He hadn't given up – no, where there was life there was hope. He'd given up on his wife because he knew no better; knowledge was what they needed. All the time Sam breathed it was possible to change things, if only they could find out how.

Bobby stood and stretched. He looked at his watch, and as he glanced out of the window he noticed the sun starting to hang low in the sky. Like a baleful guard it watched the skyline, sagging slightly behind some of South Dakota's Black Hills spruces. Evening was falling and Dean was yet to return. Bobby sniffed and walked over to the huddled form on the sofa.

Sam slept like the dead. He appeared pale and vulnerable in sleep, and his eyes carried suitcases, not simply bags. Perhaps Bobby would not have drawn such heavy conclusions had he not known what was inside the boy's head; but the words of the doctor still haunted him.

_We can make him comfortable, but…I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do._

Suddenly, Bobby remembered that he'd promised to make a curse box for Dean. Goodness only knew why he wanted it, but he'd said he would… After all, it wasn't as though he wouldn't like Bela to fall on her face- but he doubted very much she would fall for anything Dean could dream up. Still. He had to let him try – after all, he might just get lucky.

Not that luck ever seemed to be on the side of the Winchesters – not good luck, anyway. Bobby smiled crookedly.

_

* * *

_

Thank you very much for reading! I promise one thing; you won't have to wait this long for the next chapter! Come by again soon! :)


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's Note: **_Still hoping to get one chapter out every 7-14 days for the two of you that are still reading this XD

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

* * *

_**Eyes of a Stranger**_

_**Chapter Five**_

Dean pulled up outside a small one-storey house. He'd followed the map right to the address in Marshall provided by Richie. The napkin still sat on the dash of the Impala. Getting out of the car, he pulled his monkey-suit jacket back on and straightened it again. He couldn't wait to get back to Bobby's and into a pair of jeans – but he had something he needed to do first. He had a gut feeling he wasn't going to be home on time tonight; something was coming, something big. The pit of his stomach roiled at this thought and Dean just swallowed it down the way he always did.

He had a job to do.

He moved quickly up the drive towards the house; it had purple columbines in the front garden and several banks of woodchips, all with small shrubs in the centre. It was, to all intents and purposes, the perfect house. The white and beige wood stood out beneath the remainder of the light and Dean could see his reflection in the glass side panels by the front door as he approached it.

He rang the bell and waited, glancing at the time. Ten after seven. He heard movement from inside the house, and readied his fake ID. The lock clicked and the door opened – and a man appeared before Dean. His face was creased with worry lines, and they deepened as Dean flashed his ID briefly.

"My name is-"

"Have you found her?" the man interrupted. "No-one's been in contact with us since yesterday."

"No, sir, not yet," Dean said, "but we're doing our best."

"Your best isn't good enough! Paige…" the man trailed off. From inside the house, Dean heard a telephone ring. He listened as a woman's voice answered,

"Hello?"

There was a pause.

"I have some questions about your daughter," said Dean. The man nodded and pulled the door wide, and Dean moved forward to step inside – but they were interrupted by the woman's voice.

"Oh, my God! Terra, stay where you are, we're coming over now!"

The man instantly ran back into the house, leaving the door wide open for Dean to slip inside also. He did so, following the man right inside the house as his wife came out of the front room hell bent for leather. She careened into her husband, grabbing his shirt on the way.

"Paige is at Terra's house! She's got a gun on Terra and the baby!" she cried, and her eyes evidenced terror no words ever could. The man paled instantly.

"She's got a what…?" he said, shortly before running back towards the door, grabbing his car keys from a side table as he did so. Dean stepped to one side, letting the two pass and followed them quickly, saying,

"You go ahead in your car; I'll follow you." He slammed the front door behind him.

Mr Cappello barely nodded as he unlocked the car and threw himself into the driving seat. His wife also entered the car; her hands were shaking so badly she could barely open the door.

Dean tore off his jacket and threw it onto the back seat of the Impala, quickly moving into the driver's seat and starting the car's engine. He gunned her quickly, immediately pulling out after Mr Cappello and his wife.

This was his chance - his chance to stop this, to break the cycle – to find out what was happening with Sam and to stop one more massacre. The two cars sped through the wide, empty streets, taking mere minutes to get to the other side of town and to the crisis unfolding there.

Mr Cappello pulled up outside another seemingly innocuous house. It was painted blue, and had a miniature streetlamp in the garden. There was a variety of flowers on the approach to the front door, bright even in the waning evening sun, and an overhang of vines from the first floor balcony.

Mr Cappello leapt out of his car, not even closing the door behind him and ran up to the solid wooden front door, rapping on it repeatedly.

"Paige! Paige, open up! It's Daddy!" he called, panic in his voice. As Dean approached, he immediately drew his Colt 1911 from his waistband. Mrs Cappello saw this and grabbed his arm.

"You can't use that on my daughter!"

"I might not have a choice!" Dean bit back, and pulled his arm free.

Suddenly, the door clicked open under Mr Capello's hand. It opened just a crack and Mr Cappello pushed it open further, walking in through it cautiously. Dean followed him into the dimly lit house.

"Paige, we can talk about this," said a new, female voice, and it was shaking. As Dean kept close to the walls and crept in behind Mr Cappello, he could hear a baby crying and clenched his jaw.

That was going to make this _real_ awkward.

Mrs Cappello pushed past Dean and entered the room ahead of him, into the kitchen where here husband already stood.

"I can't… It's…" said another new voice. Dean presumed this was Paige, and he listened intently to the exchange which followed.

"Paige… Where have you been?" asked Mrs Cappello breathlessly. "What are you _doing_?!"

"I don't…I can't…" whispered Paige. Terra spoke again, her voice still shaking,

"Sis…If you've got problems, we can talk about this… We can talk, but please, let me put Reese down, out of the way, out of here. Please…"

"No! Nobody leaves, nobody safe! Nobody go!"

Dean flinched mentally as he realised just how similar to Sam she sounded. He edged closer to the kitchen, always on his guard, always with the Colt 1911 raised in the ready position. As he did so, the room slowly came into view and he could see the frightened brunette with her hands outstretched, gun clasped between sweaty palms.

As an experienced user of firearms, Dean could tell she'd never even lifted a gun before – but that didn't stop her being dangerous. If anything, it made her even more so. Still the baby cried, sensitive to the heavy atmosphere in the room and the fear in his mother's voice. Dean wished quite frankly that it would just be quiet so he could think, but it didn't look as though that was going to happen any time soon.

"It's…demons and…eat my…eat my…" Paige stuttered, slapping herself in his forehead. "Brain!" she exclaimed, "My brain! See? Brain!" She pointed the gun at her forehead to push home her point, but quickly aimed it back at her sister, even as her mother whimpered.

"Paige… Please let me put Reese down… He doesn't have to be part of this…" Terra said, her face covered in tears but her voice gaining some small amount of strength. Her mothering instinct was all powerful; all she wanted was to get her son out of this atmosphere and out of danger.

Paige looked at her sister warily and shook her head.

"You have to…to stop…Stop the demons… In th-the Box… Stop…" Paige said, and as her hands began to shake further Dean slunk out of the shadows. He immediately caught Paige's eye, and she swung the gun wildly towards him, her eyes full of uncontrolled fear. Dean immediately put up his hands, pulling his own gun upwards and pointing it away from the girl.

"Paige?"

"Who?!" she asked, frantically, jabbing the gun at Dean. "_Who_!?"

"My name's Dean," Dean said, analysing Paige's every move. "I know about the demons."

"You know…?" she asked, immediately dropping her guard a little. Dean nodded.

"I know they put something inside your head, behind your eyes. I know that you went to The Box in Montevideo and that something happened there. I know that you're frightened."

"How…? How you…know, how you…?" Paige asked

"My little brother is sick, like you. I'm trying to find a way to help him. That's why I'm here," Dean said. His voice was calm, but his mind was running away with itself; trying to think of options if talking her down failed. His only true option was to shoot her if it did, but with a baby in the room and her parents present it wasn't exactly his first choice.

Besides, he had sympathy for her. In some ways, it would be like shooting Sam – and that thought made Dean feel intensely uncomfortable.

"Brother… name?" she asked, distracted from her trauma for a moment.

"Sam. It's Sam," Dean replied, still with his hands up. "He's waiting for me to come home…"

"Home…" Paige looked at the frightened, pale faces of her parents and moaned.

"I don't…I have…choice, I don't want…" Paige murmured. Dean nodded.

"You don't want to kill anybody – you're not a vicious person. I can read people. You're trying to protect them in your own way, aren't you?" he asked, and Paige began to rock on her heels.

"No Box… No Box… Demons with – with behind eyes, I…I Sam…

"_That_ Sam?" Paige asked suddenly, and Dean was immediately alert.

"Do you know Sammy?" he asked, inching forwards.

"Sam… Dean…"Dean will come for us, my brother's coming, just keep holding on…"' the girl said, looking upwards as she recited words she seemed to have heard before.

"Sam was…Box…Sam… Poor Sam…" she said, shaking her head and tapping her face with the tips of her fingers to dispel the mental image therein. In doing so, she lowered the gun to her side. Dean breathed quickly for a moment and swallowed.

"Can you tell me what happened to Sam?" Dean asked, his eyes flicking between Paige's tortured expression and the gun. Paige shook her head and raised the gun again. Her mother cried out,

"Stop it! You're scaring her!"

"Shut up," Dean said sharply, not taking his eyes off Paige.

"C'mon Paige, you don't want to do this, remember? You can't let the demons win. Tell me what they did to you, to Sam. I can help you if you just-"

All this time, Terra had been edging out of the room, her arms full of screaming baby. She was desperate to get Reese out of harm's way – so desperate that she was risking her life to do so. Suddenly, Paige aimed the gun wildly in Terra's direction, cocking it. As she did so, Dean immediately pushed Terra out of the way behind him and she ran blindly from the house, her eyes filled with terror, clutching her baby so hard that her knuckles were white.

However, Dean was not fast enough to bring his own gun up again before Paige pulled the trigger. He heard the shot but it was something distant, something far away. His mind slowly reminded him he'd been here before, as pain rended his left shoulder. He heard screams, but they were distant somehow and besides, he could feel the warmth of his own blood spatter across his cheek, which was rather distracting.

He tried to stop himself falling; he knew he had to keep his gun raised, keep his game face on, keep fighting, keep talking – but somehow he could no longer feel his feet, and his legs seemed to have been replaced with rubber. Even as he fell, he heard the click of the hammer being pulled back on Paige's gun and on a very conscious level he thought,

_I'm sorry, Sammy… I've failed you, _again_…_

He didn't get a chance to think any further on the matter though, as he hit his head on the way down– and the world exploded into a pattern of bright stars before fading immediately into black.

* * *

As soon as Bobby had finished making the curse box for Dean he'd brought over a chair and a book and sat down beside Sam. He'd fixed one cuff to the sleeping boy and one to himself, and had spent a good hour reading before Sam actually stirred into life. Now, every so often, Sam would get up from beside the door and pull back the curtain to look outside into the encroaching darkness. The chain dragged as he did so; he never quite pulled it taut, the other end still cemented around Bobby's wrist.

Much to Bobby's relief and surprise, Sam had been docile upon waking, and the only concern in his muddled mind seemed to be for Dean. As the darkness had fallen like a velvet coverlet, Sam had become more and more restless, until it was almost impossible for Bobby to convince him to sit. Bobby had noticed that he was still dragging his feet a little, and hoped that Sam himself did not notice.

"Dean…Where the… where…Dean..." Sam muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead with his palms as though it gave him great pain. He paced in front of the door, his toes scuffed and bleeding from dragging them across the poorly-boarded wooden floor.

"Sam…" Bobby looked up from his book. "Sit down – wearing a hole in the floor isn't gonna get Dean here any quicker."

However, Bobby couldn't pretend he wasn't worried. Dean had promised faithfully to be back by nightfall. Darkness had finally consumed the landscape at around ten in the evening and it was now early morning – one-thirty, to be precise.

This put Bobby in a difficult position. He knew that if Dean could have contacted them, he would have. It probably meant that he was in trouble – big trouble, and Bobby knew that if that was the case he may well need backup. However, Sam wasn't really in much of a state to travel; he was going to be a burden and Bobby wasn't sure if he could cope with a serious fit of Sam's aggression while driving – at least not without killing them both.

"Bobby… Dean… _Dean_…" Sam clapped his hands together and twisted his fingers, knotting them and unknotting them until they clicked repeatedly. Bobby tugged the chain to try to get Sam's attention, but once again he paced with grazed toes and looked out of the window for his brother and his favoured car.

Bobby looked at the cell phone that rested on the arm of the couch. He picked it up briefly and put it down again. He'd left God only knew how many messages on Dean's answer phone over the last three hours, but none of them had resulted in a callback.

"Dean…" Sam saw the cell phone and reached out his shaking hand for it. Bobby looked at him, his eyes full of pity.

"Got Dean…not…got Dean, I…call…

"Call Dean…

"He to me, I'm…

"_Answer_…"

"No demons…not to, to get Dean…" Sam forced, his voice growing frustrated. Since his return from the hospital and, it would seem, in the aftermath of his previous attack, Sam's communication had once again degraded. He couldn't even force a true sentence anymore – mostly his speech was a jumble of words, sometimes not even relevant ones.

Nonetheless, Bobby flicked through the address book to Dean's number, pressed the call button and handed the cell phone to Sam. Sam grabbed it instantly and took it back to the door, crashing to the ground and cradling the phone with both hands.

"Please to answer, Dean to please, to…answer, to answer…" Sam babbled, as the call tone rang and rang and rang at the other end.

"Please to answer…Dean, to answer…" Sam gabbled through the brief answer phone message left by his brother, and the beep which followed.

"Dean…Dean to…to come…back to Sam, to… to back where home is…

"Where is… Is demon…for Dean… ?

"Is gone…? Is Dean…?" And at this, Sam's eyes filled with uncontrolled tears; his eroded brain was no longer able to control his emotions; a massive part of the issue with his aggression.

"Is Dean…no… no answer, is Dean…Is gone?" The phone slid from Sam's hands as he forced himself to his feet and once again, as he had done so often, pulled back the curtain to wait for the headlights of the Impala to approach on the drive. He touched his head to the window as his tears spattered against the window frame.

The chain clanked slightly as Bobby stood and leaned down to pick up the cell phone. He ended the call and stood beside Sam as he wept, tapping the window glass with the fingers of his right hand. Bobby looked at the younger Winchester beside him – and sighed.

It looked as though it was going to be a long night of searching.

* * *

At first, all he could hear was his own breathing. It was relatively thin, and scratchy. There was something on his face, something that in normal circumstances wouldn't have been there. He reached up to grab it – and then remembered the position of danger he was in.

Dean's eyes snapped open and he forced himself upright in the bed, grabbing at the oxygen mask strapped to the lower part of his face. He immediately regretted his decision as the world swam around him and he felt rather sick. He blinked quickly – this wasn't where he remembered being. The lights were too bright, the smell too chemical, the room-

A hospital room.

"Whsfnk…?" Dean asked, unable yet to form proper words as his head continued to spin. He breathed heavily as he slid his hand to the back of his head, feeling a short row of neat stitches there, just above the bony protrusion at the base of the skull. As he did so, flames of pain ripped through his shoulder and he flinched visibly.

"Ow…" he said, unable to express more.

"You could have been killed," a voice said beside him. He looked towards the voice in confusion.

Beside him sat Terra, her baby in her arms. In stark contrast to the last time Dean had seen him he was dozing quietly, squeezing his little toes together as he slept. Terra brushed his forehead gently and looked up at Dean.

"Thank you," she said, honesty clear in her voice and in her eyes. Dean nodded his acknowledgement.

"What happened?" he asked. Terra cleared her throat.

"You got shot protecting me and Reese. And you hit your head on the side table in the hallway when you fell," Terra said. Her jaw trembled.

"And your parents? Your sister? Dean asked, and he felt sick for a whole new reason as Terra spoke.

"After Paige shot you, she… She put the gun to her head and blew her brains out all over my kitchen cupboards," she said, tears skimming down her face and spattering onto her baby's flannelette top. She patted at the tears on her son distractedly.

"My parents weren't hurt physically, but they saw their daughter kill herself. So…they're not okay. Not at all," Terra continued, taking a shaking breath and trying not to sob.

"I'm sorry," said Dean. Terra once again glanced up at Dean as she played gently with her baby's tiny fingers.

"Your brother… Sam," she said, as tears rolled down her cheeks. She tucked some errant strands of her dark blonde hair behind her ear and spoke again,

"He's ill? You said he was ill, like Paige. That you knew about the demons.

"What does that mean?"

Dean shook his head.

"There are some things it's best you don't know," he said, putting his sore head into one cupped hand.

"There was something wrong with Paige, wasn't there? She _was_ ill, or drugged –something like that. She'd never have hurt me or the baby, not if she was herself. Not if she was okay.

"Please, you have to tell me what you know. I can't live my life knowing that my sister did this without some kind of, of…explanation. She had so much to live for. She was going to college at the start of the new year; she was beautiful, all the guys loved her. She was going to have a happy life, start a family of her own, live in a gorgeous house…

"I want to know what happened to that future… I want to know what happened to my baby sister…" Terra said, her tears now uncontrolled. Dean paused, and an expression of momentary grief flitted across his face.

"That was Sam's future, too," he said. "But futures aren't set in stone. Our destiny isn't a contract – there are too many variables.

"I'm sorry I couldn't change Paige's future.

"But I _will_ change Sam's, or I'll die trying," he finished. After a moment, he cradled his head again.

"And I'm starting to sound like him," he smiled crookedly. Terra reached forward a hand and rested it on Dean's leg.

"I believe you will. I hope you do," she smiled, through her tears. Dean returned the smile gently.

He rubbed his shoulder as gingerly as he dared. From the feel of it, this had been a shot that struck uncomfortably close to his lungs – the last time he'd taken a shot in that shoulder it had been further out, and flesh only.

"Can you pass me that board?" he asked Terra, indicating for the clip board at the end of his bed. She moved slightly and pulled it up, handing it to him.

Dean examined his notes carefully. It seemed as though his wounds just felt worse than they actually were – the bullet had missed his lungs by less than half an inch by the looks of it. He whistled between his teeth; that could have been really nasty and would have doubtless put a huge crimp in his plans. He looked at his wrist, and for the first time noticed that he wasn't in his clothes, but in a hospital robe. In addition, his watch and silver bracelet were missing.

His hand immediately snapped up to his neckline. They'd removed his charm. _The_ charm. His expression flickered for a moment.

"Do you know where they put my stuff?" Dean asked. Terra shook her head. Dean immediately pushed off his bedcovers and slid towards the edge of the bed. He found himself caught up short suddenly by an IV line that bit into his hand. He scowled at it and removed it carefully, wincing as he did so. Dean tossed the needled end of the catheter back up to the stand, and it caught on the hook there. Dean raised an eyebrow, congratulating himself on such a good shot as the needled end spattered saline onto the floor. He made short work of the cannula in his hand and left it on the bed. Turning back, he waved a hand at Terra.

"Turn around," he said, realising that there was no back to the robe. In spite of herself, she smiled and did so.

"Try the bedside cabinet for your clothes," she said. Dean slid off the bed and did so. His legs were still a little rubbery, which was…inconvenient.

"You're losing your touch, Dean. Time was you could get shot and still stand up afterwards.

"'Course, getting' shot in the shoulder is getting old… You'd think they could aim for somewhere else… Or some_one_ else…"

"Maybe it's the concussion…" he muttered to himself as he rooted in the cupboard, pleased to find his black suit trousers and less pleased to find his ruined white dress shirt.

"Sam's gonna kill me," he said, shaking it out. "I get through more shirts this way." He remembered that his T shirt and proper jacket were in the Impala and felt slightly better.

He was even more relieved to find his mask charm tucked into the pocket of the trousers. He smiled, immediately pulling the leather thong over his head and tugging the charm into place. There. That was better. Now he was more…complete.

Digging further into the same pocket, he discovered his watch and the bracelet and donned both of them. As soon as the watch was fixed to his arm, he looked at it – and swore,

"Dammit… is it really three in the morning?" he asked Terra. She nodded, still with her back to him.

"Is it safe to turn around yet?" she asked, and Dean quickly pulled on his underwear and trousers before replying,

"Yeah."

Terra turned as Dean pulled his shirt on awkwardly. She stood, her baby held tightly to her in one arm and used the other to help him into the shirt on his injured left side. Sitting back on the bed, Dean buttoned it equally as awkwardly; this wound was not simply flesh, obviously, but muscle as well.

It was just as well, he thought, that most of his shirts were actually tees.

"Can you see if my cell phone is in that cupboard?" Dean asked. Terra looked right into the back of the cupboard and reached in with one arm. She pulled out Dean's flip style cell phone.

"This?" she asked. Dean nodded, and took it from her.

"Five missed calls…" he said, and swore. "Sam's gonna be out of his mind."

_Well… More than usual, _his mind inserted before he slapped it. He dialled his answer phone pick up number and listened to five messages – four of which were Bobby's and the last of which was Sam's.

His face fell as he listened to Sam's distressed babbling.

He had saved a small child, received thanks from it's mother and had been shot in the process of attempting to stop a suicide – and yet listening to Sam's anguish made that fade into nothing – made him feel like a failure.

As soon as Sam's message played to the end, Dean hung up. He immediately flicked to Bobby's number and called it – he had no idea if Sam's phone was charged or in use, considering the situation.

Bobby snatched up the cell phone as it rang beside him, one hand still on the steering wheel. He heard the chain clank behind him and Sam grabbed the headrest of Bobby's seat. It unnerved Bobby to hear Sam breathing so hard so close to his ear, but he put up with it as he answered.

"Hello - Dean?"

"It's me," Dean replied

"Where the Hell have you been? Are you okay?" Bobby asked, his voice thin with relief. Sam smacked the back of Bobby's seat impatiently with an open hand – it was pretty clear he had a few questions to ask of Dean himself.

"It's a long story. I'm in hospital right now, but I'm about to discharge myself-"

"You're what? What did you do!?"

"I didn't do anything! That's part of the problem," Dean sighed, shaking his head and pressing his finger and thumb to his eyes as he suddenly felt very sick again.

"I got a little bit shot, that's all. And I smacked my head," he said, feeling the neat row of stitches once more. He heard Bobby sigh deeply.

"Me and Sam are on the road, looking for you. Where are you? We'll come pick you up."

"You brought Sam with you?" Dean asked, incredulous. "What if he goes AWOL and takes you out on the road, Bobby, what if-"

"He's okay. He's too tired to do much, Dean, he's too worried about you," but Dean had been talking over Bobby's answer;

"- he escapes? How could you take him out of the house?! I don't want him shot like some animal, Bobby!" Dean paced as he verbally tore strips off the older man.

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"And what was I _meant_ to do? We didn't know if you were even still alive, Dean – Sam wouldn't rest, what was I supposed to do?"

"If I'm dead, Bobby, there's only one thing you _can _do, _ever_. Look after Sam," Dean said, his voice low and serious. Bobby frowned angrily.

"Well then, you'd best not be goin' anywhere anytime soon. Where you at?" Dean chewed on his kneejerk anger for a moment, then replied,

"I'm at the hospital in…" Dean looked at Terra, and she mouthed 'Tracy' "…Tracy. I need to go pick up the car, though, so I'll meet you in Marshall." Dean paused for a moment before asking,

"How _is_ Sam?"

"Why don't you ask him?" Bobby replied, and handed off the cell phone to Sam. He took it eagerly and held it to his ear with both hands.

"Dean…" he said, and Dean heard the desperation in his voice. The older Winchester sighed under his breath.

"It's me, Sammy. I'm sorry I didn't make it back, I-"

"Safe?" asked Sam, frantic for confirmation. Dean smiled.

"I'm a little knocked around, but it's nothing that won't heal. I'll be okay," he replied.

"Me, to…ask…to not…to not…leave to, stay, to…Me…

"Leave me… Dean… go, leave me you… You… I think…" Sam muttered, barely coherent at all. Dean frowned, trying to understand what his brother was telling him, but his communication skills were all but gone.

"Not safe…go, but you leave…" Sam said, trying to focus his ever more distracted thoughts.

"You thought I'd left you? For good?" Dean asked suddenly, the fog lifting.

"Yes…" said Sam, and there was relief in his voice.

"Sam – the only way I'll leave you is if you put me in a coffin, and even then you'll have to salt and burn me. I'm not going _anywhere_, do you hear me? I will always find my way back to you, _always_," Dean insisted, zeal in his voice. He wanted to make Sam understand that this wasn't over, that it was never over; that even if he had to protect him from the other side, he would do so.

"If Dad can climb his way out of Hell, Sammy, then I can promise you this; you're never getting rid of me, period."

"No to salt… No to burn, no…not to burn…" Sam said, and Dean could hear his voice shaking. He clenched his fist forgetting that his shoulder was injured as the movement shot pain through his arm. He was too troubled by his brother's disconsolation to give it much attention.

"Bobby's bringing you to me, Sammy. Just sit tight," Dean said softly – more softly than he would have liked Terra to hear. She seemed to understand this as she stood and moved into a corner of the room, talking softly to her son and trying to make it clear that she had no interest in Dean's business.

"Pass the phone back to Bobby, Sam…" Dean asked, and there was a crunching, clanking sound at the other end of the line as Sam did so.

"What do you want now?" asked Bobby irritably, and Dean smiled crookedly at the crotchety older man's retort.

"What happened with the scan?" Dean asked. Bobby's face fell, and Dean sensed danger in the pause.

"Bobby?"

"I'll tell you about it later. We're about an hour from Marshall," he said, trying to delay the inevitable. Dean wanted to push for an answer, but found that his mouth would not form the words.

"Okay. I'll meet you by the gas station."

Bobby grunted a farewell and put the cell phone back on the seat beside him. He glanced in the rear view mirror to see Sam looking tired but settled, gazing out into the trees that sped by as they drove. Bobby's worried frown was so deep that it met in the centre of his forehead.

"My friend's coming to meet me with my brother," Dean said to Terra. "Can somebody give me a ride back to my car?"

"Sure. I think Dad will take you," she said, leading Dean towards the door. The elder Winchester looked back at the room to see if he'd forgotten anything. He was startled for a moment, as he realised he didn't have his wallet on him - then remembered that he'd left it in his jeans, back in the car.

As they walked along the corridor, Terra asked,

"You're not really a police officer, are you?" Dean squinted against the bright white light and replied, quietly,

"No, but my life might depend on you not telling anyone."

"Trust me. They won't hear it from me," Terra said, as they turned into the reception area. Her father sat in some chairs to one side, and stood immediately as he saw her.

The bereaved man quickly walked towards his now only daughter and hugged her tightly, the baby cradled between them. Terra reached around and hugged him with one arm. As she had given Dean grace, so he gave it to her; he looked away from the two of them as they shared a moment of grief.

He heard Terra asking after her mom, to which her father replied that she was with Paige. Terra nodded.

"Dad, can we drop Dean back at the house? He needs to pick up his car."

Mr Cappello looked up at Dean and nodded.

"Dean? Will you come in with me when we get there? I have something for you," Terra said. Taken by surprise, Dean nodded. Mr Cappello walked towards Dean, who held his ground; no matter what the man said, it would make no difference. He'd done what he could. He hadn't been able to save Paige, but he'd tried.

The man extended a hand. Dean looked at it dubiously.

"Thank you. You saved my baby girl and my grandson. And… You…tried to save Paige.

"Thank you," he said. Dean paused before reaching out to clasp the man's hand and shake it firmly. He nodded.

"Wish I could have done more," he said. Mr Cappello nodded.

"Me too," he said quietly.

* * *

Bobby was a sight for sore eyes, standing by the old 1971 Chavelle as Dean pulled up behind it in the Impala. His shoulder hurt like hell despite the heavy duty painkillers they'd given him at the hospital pharmacy; his head hurt, he was tired and he was grouchy.

Bobby looked around as Dean got out of the car. He had his hands in his pockets, and as Dean approached he withdrew them. Dean instantly laid eyes on the cuff around his wrist, and the red grazes there.

"Sam?" asked Dean, a slight nervousness in his voice. Bobby pointed into the back of the car – where Sam was curled up and sleeping under a rough plaid blanket.

"Couldn't sleep 'til he heard from you," Bobby said. Dean nodded.

"Did he give you any trouble?"

"Nothin' I couldn't handle," Bobby said. Dean opened the door and shoved the driver's seat forward, climbing in beside his brother.

Sam was startled at the sudden movement at his side, but as he turned his expression changed from one of fear to one of total and utter relief.

"Sorry to make you wait, dude," Dean smiled crookedly. Sam cast off the blanket Bobby had put over him and threw his arms around Dean's neck.

"Ow…Ow…Ow, Sam…ow…" Dean protested, as Sam squeezed him so tightly that he thought his shoulder stitches would split open. Almost immediately, Sam froze and pulled back. The expression on his face was a strange one as he ran his hand over Dean's injured shoulder and felt the bandaging below. He set eyes on the blood spattered shirt and he bared his teeth slightly.

Dean didn't speak at first, until Sam started to push and prod at his shirt.

"Sam… You're freaking me out. What are you doing?" Dean winced. Sam came across the bandaging quickly – and sniffed it.

"…Smell injure. I can, I smell it…gunpowder…

"Blood…"

"_Who_?" Sam asked, and his voice was deep and visceral. Dean flicked an eyebrow at Sam's reaction and said,

"Somebody who blew their brains out. You don't have to worry about her hurting anybody anymore."

"_Who?!_"

"It doesn't matter! Okay? It's fine," Dean said, unnerved by the strength of Sam's ire and reminded of Paige's identical words. Sam clenched his fists irritatedly and smacked Dean's good shoulder fairly hard.

"Oh, I get it. Now you're pissed at me," Dean smirked, rubbing his shoulder. For a mere moment, Sam looked so reproachfully at Dean that it was as though he were just Sam, that there was nothing wrong at all; just as though he were Dean's normal, everyday Sam. The look surprised Dean, but not unpleasantly. It confirmed his thoughts; his Sam was still in there, guaranteed.

Sam was still clearly unsettled by Dean's injury. He wrapped his arms around Dean once again, more gently this time – and found the stitches in the back of his head. He fingered them lightly, which Dean found to be even more unnerving than his previous reaction.

"You….not safe…" he whispered. "Promise…safe, I you…I…you said…

"Safe…I come back…safe…" Sam forced. Dean shook his head, barely able to understand Sam's babbling at all. After a moment, he pulled back, casting his eyes over Sam. He saw the grazes on his wrist; grazes that surpassed Bobby's by miles. Dean pulled back the cuff to examine them properly; there was a three inch area all around his wrist where there was barely any skin at all.

Bobby opened the front door and stuck his head in. He handed Dean his cuff and the keys, which Dean immediately secreted about his person.

"I'll drive us back. You gonna leave your car here?" Bobby asked.

"No!" Dean exclaimed, as though Bobby had given him a bodily injury. "I'm not leavin' her here – anything could happen!" Bobby rolled his eyes.

"I'm coming to tow my car back tomorrow, then?" he asked. "Am I even allowed to drive her?" Dean gave that more than a moment's thought, and Bobby growled frustratedly, slamming the door.

Dean took a moment more to think about it, and sighed.

"Bobby won't grind her gears, right?" he said to Sam, who didn't really respond in any kind of helpful way. His eyes were fixed on the cuff in Dean's hand. Dean nodded, as he followed Sam's gaze.

He clasped the cuff around his wrist and showed it to Sam. The younger Winchester reached out towards his brother's wrist and touched the cuff gingerly. It seemed to help him maintain some kind of physical link to the world – a link Dean worried was fading by the hour.

"C'mon, Robin. To the Batmobile," Dean said, getting out of the car and tugging on the chain gently. Sam followed obediently, and it was at this point that Dean realised he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Bobby? He hasn't lost another shoe?" Dean asked the older man as Bobby stood by the Impala. Bobby shook his head.

"He couldn't get them on."

"He couldn't get them on?" Dean repeated, looking at his brother's feet – and for the first time noticing the grazes on the top of his toes.

"He couldn't tie the laces."

Dean moved to walk towards Bobby, wanting to question him further about the grazes, and Sam followed slowly. As the chain extended to it's fullest, Dean turned to see Sam struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Horrified, he turned to face Bobby.

"Is there something you need to tell me about my brother, Bobby?"

"There's a lot I need to tell you, son. Get in the car," Bobby said, opening the passenger door on the driver's side of the Impala and pulling the seat forward. Dean looked at him again, briefly, before going back to Sam and supporting him as he walked towards the Impala. Sam was clutching the plaid blanket in one hand and it dragged across the floor behind him until Dean lifted it up and put it over his shoulder.

"It's times like this I wish you weren't so tall! Didn't anybody ever tell you you're the _kid_ brother?" Dean complained as he guided Sam towards the car.

He helped Sam into the back of the car and followed him in, tossing Bobby the keys as he did so. Bobby got into the driver's seat, and in less than a minute, they were on the road again.

"Tell me about the brain scan." Dean said, his heart in his throat. Bobby shook his head.

"It's better if I talk to you about it when we get back," he said, changing gear. Dean sat forward on the back seat; Sam watched him carefully, sensing the sudden increase in his aggression.

"Tell me now, Bobby. If you've got bad news for me, tell me now," he said. Bobby shook his head.

"Tell me!"

"No! I need the paperwork to explain it all properly," Bobby said, and that was a weak excuse even to Dean. He was so intent on getting his answer that he didn't notice Sam curl on the chair beside him at first, didn't notice him reach for his head, didn't notice him pale as he and Bobby continued to argue.

However, when he did notice, he stopped immediately.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, and immediately shifted across the seat to his brother.

"Is he having another attack?" Bobby asked, flicking his eyes from the road up to the rear view mirror and glancing into the back of the cab.

"Sam… Sam, listen to me, listen to me…" Dean said as he pulled his brother into his arms. Sam gasped, his chest heaving as he did so and looked around, trying to fix his eyes on something.

"Sammy… It'll be okay, you just have to, to – look at me – let it go, let yourself black out…" Dean pulled Sam's face around and trapped his gaze with his own. It was heartbreaking to see the pain and fear in Sam's eyes, but Dean knew how to be strong. He'd buried both parents, shot an innocent man in defence of Sam, and lived his whole adult life as a survivalist. If he had to be cast iron to get Sam through this, he would be.

"P-p-pain…" Sam gasped, as a trail of blood snaked down his cheek. Dean ignored it and said,

"I know, but it'll go, it'll go… Hold on, Sammy… I swear to God I'm gonna fix this, just give me some time, give me some time…"

"Dean…" Sam's eyes rolled slightly as he reached out, clasping Dean's shirt between his fists.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here, right here, I'll keep you safe…" Dean said, feeling the tightness of Sam's muscles via his straining shoulders. Sam took three more gasping breaths before his eyes rolled back and his body relaxed, his consciousness once again gone.

"I'm gonna kill the son of a bitch who did this to you," Dean swore as he pulled Sam closer, clinging and unwilling to let go. A visceral instinct was taking over – he couldn't protect his brother if he wasn't in his arms, he couldn't absorb his pain if he wasn't close by, he couldn't defend him if he couldn't make contact.

The problem was that no matter what Dean did, he couldn't see this enemy. He couldn't touch this enemy. He couldn't approach this enemy in any way, and yet it sickened his brother continuously. He couldn't fight an enemy he couldn't see – he needed a way to even the odds, and then he was going to put the son of a bitch down so hard he'd never get up.

"He all right?" Bobby asked, still keeping one eye on the road and one on the boys.

"No. But he's alive. The rest I can work with," said Dean, moving back into a seated position and pulling Sam's unconscious form over towards the seat next to him. It was inconvenient that Sam was on Dean's injured left side; instead of resting Sam's head against his shoulder, he had little choice but to support his head against his chest. He pulled the blanket over Sam loosely, wiping his bloodstained face with the sleeve of his already ruined shirt.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Mmm?"

"Just find us a motel for tonight. Then Sam can sleep properly and you can tell me about the scan – without the paperwork," Dean said, and his voice was unequivocal.

Bobby merely nodded his response, finally surrendering to the necessity of telling Dean what the brain scan had shown.

_

* * *

_

Thank you very much for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story so far! Come again soon! :)


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's Note: **_Wow, thank you! I've had some great reviews for the most recent chapter, all very much appreciated. Thank you for reading and, more than that, for wanting to come back for more :) It is a shorter chapter this time, but it seems like the right place to end it this week. Still counting on 7-14 days for updates, but I really need to get on and finish the end of the story (grimaces).

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

_**

* * *

**_

Eyes of a Stranger

_**Chapter Six**_

Dean had more nervous energy than he knew what to do with. He'd started a shouting match in the reception of the motel over some minor slight, and Bobby had told him in no uncertain terms to go and get Sam out of the car. For security, they'd cuffed the sleeping man to the bars under the front seat – he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. As Dean took a room key from Bobby and left to go back to the car, he deliberately knocked over a leaflet stand by the entrance. He smirked at the foul-mouthed retort of the motel's owner.

Dean's reaction to Sam was infinitely more gentle and more patient. Sam looked at his brother exhaustedly and squirmed under the blanket he had been left tightly tucked into as Dean prodded him into consciousness.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean said, as he reached into the car to help his brother out of it.

"Snn…I dn…n't sleep…" Sam said, his tiredness showing through. Dean nodded as he helped Sam to his feet, humouring his brother; he had no idea what Sam was saying now. They had no change of clothes; everything they owned in that line was at Bobby's. Dean thought that the first stop in the morning should be to get Sam a pair of tennis shoes as he helped his brother across the shingle in the car park. He glanced at Sam warily, but his brother didn't seem to feel the rough grit and gravel at all.

"Don't you feel that?" Dean asked. Sam looked at him, his eyes bleary. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"There's no point in asking you anything right now, is there?" he muttered to himself as he dragged Sam across the courtyard to their room and supported him as he unlocked the door.

Dean opened the door and checked the room out with his eyes before pulling Sam into the clean but spartan space by the blanket that was still wrapped around him. Sam stumbled in, entirely lacking in his own will. Dean shut the door behind him, but left it unlocked so that Bobby could enter unhindered when he returned from completing their booking. The carpet was a dirty beige colour, and as Dean herded Sam towards the bed, he saw red patches appearing wherever Sam's feet touched the fibres.

Dean swore irritatedly and sat Sam down on the bed, where he remained motionless – almost like a computer waiting for human input. Dean knelt before him and said,

"Lift up your feet, Sam."

Sam did so, but reluctantly. Dean swore and grabbed his brother's ankle, going on to pick out some small pieces of sharp grit from the soles of his feet.

"What is that out there, broken glass?" asked Dean of no-one in particular. Sam murmured in response, but his words were entirely lost. Dean put Sam's foot back down and pulled Sam to his feet once again – much to the younger Winchester's displeasure. He spent a good few moments complaining about it bitterly without any coherent words, but Dean paid him no heed. He dragged his brother towards the bathroom and told him to sit down on the inside edge of the bath. He reached out an arm to support his brother as he climbed in, sitting down on the side and putting his feet onto cold, white enamel.

Dean turned on the taps – hot first, and then cold. A noisy, steady flow of water poured into the bath. It occurred to him to check the temperature – if Sam couldn't feel cuts on his lower extremities, it was likely he couldn't feel extreme heat or cold on them, either. The last thing Dean needed was to burn his brother's feet and legs. It only need to be cool water, although warm might be more comf-

_No_, he thought. _It probably wouldn't_.

Dean sorted through the mirrored bathroom cabinet as Sam sat, unmoving, on the lid of the toilet seat. He was looking for some phenol-based antiseptic, but the cupboard contained nothing but a very old razor and some shaving soap.

Dean heard a noise in the main room and his hand immediately went to his Colt. Sam watched warily, his attention caught.

"It's me," Bobby called from the room. Dean sighed and put the gun back into his waistband, turning off the tap and calling back to Bobby,

"Bobby! Can you get the first aid kit from the car?"

"Sure. What have you done now?" asked Bobby as he approached the bathroom. He stared into the shallow bathwater and saw thin tendrils of red appearing under Sam's feet. Sam gazed dully at the same wisps, not looking disturbed by them in the least. Bobby looked back up at Dean.

"I'll get it," he said, his voice quiet.

While Bobby left to fetch the First Aid kit from the car, Dean knelt at Sam's side.

"'Leep…" Sam slurred. Dean nodded.

"I know. But we've got to look after this first.

"You okay otherwise?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head slowly.

"I'm…seen…inth'…" Sam murmured. Dean shook his head.

"I needed to ask you some questions, Sammy. But I don't think you can answer them any more, can you?" Dean asked, and this realisation caused a sense of shock so deep it made him shiver to the core of his soul. Sam gazed at Dean and his expression was so dulled and lifeless that it was as though he were dead already. Dean pushed himself to his feet and clapped both hands onto Sam's face. His brother blinked, other than that there was very little reaction.

"Don't give up on me, Sam. Don't you give up on me. I'm not done yet," Dean said, and pulled Sam's head towards his chest.

By the time Bobby returned with the First Aid kit, Sam was asleep sitting up. Dean woke him by tapping his cheek gently, and for a few arduous minutes Sam managed to stay awake – long enough for Dean to treat his wounds with the antiseptic, to get him on his feet and into the nearest bed.

In the time it took for Dean to unlock the chain that bound them together and attach it to the bottom of the old metal bedstead, Sam was once again asleep, deep in the imagined traumas of his sickness-riddled mind.

Dean sighed deeply as he sat on the other bed.

"You get the room next door?" Dean asked Bobby as the older man sat on a wooden-framed chair at the table. Bobby nodded.

"You can't put it off any more, Bobby. You gotta tell me," Dean said, his hands clenched in front of him as he looked up at his old friend. It was Bobby's turn to sigh. He took off his cap and rubbed his head, putting it back on before he said,

"It's bad, Dean. I don't know if there's anything we can do. Even if we can find the cause, I doubt we can repair the damage that…" Bobby shook his head.

"Just, please – Bobby…" said Dean, desperate to hear of what ailed his brother. Bobby nodded.

"Okay. First of all, when we got there, he kept saying how he didn't want to go in the box, and threw a fit when we tried to get him into the scanner. He had to be sedated."

"The Box is a club in Montevideo. I didn't get a chance to go there today, but it's sure as Hell on my list for tomorrow," Dean replied. "All the people who broke down and went postal referred to it. The guy in Granite Falls worked for it. Shot fifteen people there and then himself – his was the highest body count. Conseja Ramirez, forty-three, family man with two teenage sons. Both dead, killed by daddy dearest at the club.

"Oh, and that's something else. Every single one of them shot a member of family. Mothers, sisters, brothers – all of them shot a blood relative." Dean looked up at Bobby.

"So you're thinking…?" asked Bobby. Dean shrugged.

"Who else has Sam got to shoot in that line?" he replied.

"This isn't a random thing, Bobby. There's definitely a pattern – and it all links back to that club. There's something going on in there, something Hell spat up."

"You're thinking demons?" Bobby asked. "For sure?"

"Damn straight. Sam knows a demon when he sees one. This isn't possession though – no black smoke, no black eyes, and the people…

"The people are still themselves. There's no demon talking for them. The girl in Marshall looked and sounded like herself, like a human being.

"Bobby, she was trying to fight it," Dean said, matching eyes with the older man. Bobby nodded.

"Like Sam."

"Like Sam," Dean agreed.

"That where you got shot?" Bobby asked. Dean just nodded quickly and shrugged – realising too late how painful that would be. He winced hard.

There was a pause. Bobby averted his gaze, unable to look at Dean anymore. Finally, he spoke.

"You're right. It's not possession." Dean took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst.

"You remember you and Sam told me about that case you had in Rivergrove, Oregon? The demonic virus?" Bobby said. Dean nodded.

"Sure – how could I forget?" he said, wryly, thinking back to being stuck in a locked room with Sam, waiting for him to-

He immediately sobered.

"You think it's a demonic virus?" he asked. Bobby shook his head.

"Not a virus, Dean. A parasite."

Dean looked bemused for a moment.

"A parasite?" he asked. Bobby nodded.

"He's got a parasite in his brain. Doc said he'd never seen anything like it. It's…

"It's eating his brain, Dean.

"His communication and balance centres are all but gone, the part of his brain that controls emotions is massively damaged and-" Bobby took a breath to continue, but Dean interrupted him.

"Wait, wait, wait. Some demonic bastard put a _worm _in my brother's head?" Dean asked, aghast. His memory pushed forward a video of Sam waving his hand in front of his face and saying,

"_The demons came… They put something behind my eyes…"_

"So… So he_ is_ brain damaged…" Dean said, feeling sickness rise in his stomach. His chest stung with every breath, and he rubbed his face with both hands.

"I'm sorry. That's why I wanted the paperwork – to explain it all properly," Bobby said, aching with sympathy for the young man before him.

"But – but if it's physical, they can take it out, right? They can fix it, they can operate and fix up the holes and he'll be good, right? Right?" Dean said, looking up at Bobby. He stood and licked his lips, pacing briefly on the spot in confusion, his fingers steepled and pressed over his mouth. Bobby swallowed, still unable to meet Dean's gaze as he turned it to him.

Bobby shook his head.

"What do you mean 'no'? Sure they can, they can do anything now, they can go in there and-" Dean saw Bobby shaking his head.

"They can!" he said, and his voice rose in desperation. "They can just…" Dean sank to the bed again, putting his hands back to his mouth.

"The doc said they could make him comfortable…but that there wasn't anything else they could do," Bobby said.

"Make him comfortable? W-what does that mean? That's my job, that's… That's what I do, that's _my_ job!" Dean stood, his voice once again rising but this time in panic. Bobby didn't respond and still could not lift his eyes to the distraught hunter before him. Dean immediately walked to Sam's side and pulled the coves higher over his shoulders as though to prove the point. His hands shook – Bobby had never seen Dean's hands shake, but they shook now, and uncontrollably.

"No…no, no, no, no, no…" Dean said, "I'm not going to let this happen… I'm not going to give up on him, there's got to be something I can do!" Sam flinched in his sleep and fidgeted – his brother's distress seeped into his dreams, tainting them like flies on food.

"What can you do, Dean?" Bobby asked, finally looking up at Dean's face. He cringed on the inside as he saw something else he'd never seen in Dean's eyes – fear.

"I won't lose him, Bobby. I can't…" Dean said, and even though his chest hurt and his eyes stung and his legs felt as insubstantial as air, Dean walked quickly to the door and disappeared into the night, slamming the door behind him.

Bobby heard the Impala's engine start up and listened as Dean drove her quickly towards the exit of the Motel car lot. Bobby sighed, all desire for sleep suddenly lost – even if it was gone five in the morning after a very restless night.

Dean drove the Impala full tilt into the sun rise, not knowing or caring where he was headed, just driving – driving, driving anywhere but here, just trying to get away from his pain. But he couldn't escape what was on the inside, just like Sam couldn't.

Tears rose in and fell from his eyes, until it got to the point where he could barely see the road at all. He wiped them away with one hand impatiently; he wasn't allowed to grieve, Sam wasn't dead yet. Where there was life there was hope – even if it was thin, sickly hope.

Suddenly he pulled the car over, brakes screeching as she came to a halt. Dean struck the steering wheel once with an angry fist before throwing his arms down onto it and putting his head between them. His shoulders shook with the agony growing within; agonies he knew he couldn't bear, pain he knew he couldn't shoulder. Past history had shown him that.

The steadfast Impala had seen his tears before; there was no grief she had not seen, no suffering she had not watched him go through. And now she stood sure, a metal room in which he could cry and scream as much as he needed to, cream and black arms within which he could bare his soul.

As the sun continued to rise, pulling itself free of it's spruce-coloured blanket and stretching it's arms across the sky, Dean finally lifted his head from the steering wheel. His chest still hurt – but he suspected that this was something that would not change before he could mend Sam.

There was no 'if he could not mend Sam'. His life depended on it. He knew he could not trust himself to not cast his life away in chasing of his brother if he passed from his presence.

If there was anything he didn't want, it was to be utterly, utterly alone. His brother knew him, recognised his quirks, understood all his traits – and though they may have occasionally driven him crazy, he loved him nonetheless.

Suddenly, something occurred to Dean. He sat back in the driving seat, sliding his hand into his pocket. From it he withdrew a beaded chain with a crucifix attached – a rosary.

It had been quite a fight with the police to get past them, but they had finally agreed to let Dean and Terra into the house. Terra spent only a few moments in her bedroom before returning to Dean downstairs.

"_Dean. I want you to have this," Terra said as they stood in the front room of her house. Dean looked wary, but she took his hand and placed something in it, closing his fingers around it. It was slightly too big for his hand, and the plain crucifix dangled from his palm – powerful in it's simplicity. Dean looked up at Terra in confusion. _

"_This was given to me by Paige on my eighteenth birthday. I think… I think she'd have liked you to have it._

"_If you're going up against demons, Dean… It might be useful to ask God for help._

"_You need the love of God to see you through," she said, as she noticed Dean looking uncomfortable._

"_Please, take it. I'll feel better if you have it," Terra pleaded. Dean opened his palm and cast his eyes over the oval beads made of dark wood._

"_God's never done much for us before. Why would he start now?" Dean said, glancing up at Terra from the rosary. _

"_Doesn't hurt to ask, does it?" she said, smiling gently. _

Dean looked at it blankly.

If it didn't help, it couldn't hurt. Could it?

Dean pulled the rosary over one hand and rubbed the beads gently, closing his eyes. Tears stung them again even before he spoke, and he took a moment to compose himself before addressing God.

"I know you don't hear much from me, God, but I know Sam talks to you a lot. I see too much heavy duty shit to believe you're there – but Sam believes in you.

"How could any supreme being see this much evil in the world and do nothing? You're supposed to be all powerful, and you still do _nothing_. Or don't you see it? Is it that you're not looking – I don't know, that you have some kind of heavenly pay-per-view that's more interesting than your kids?

"I can't have any faith in a being that would exist and let good people die in such screwed-up ways. I've seen some of the shit that Hell pulls, and it's not pretty.

"And now they want Sam.

"And I can't let them take him." Dean's eyes filled with tears.

"Please, God, if you're there, and I don't believe you are but I've got to _try_, please… Please don't let them have Sam. I'll kill them _all_, but if he's dead anyway then there's no point – no point to anything.

"I can't watch him suffer. I can't watch him die again, I can't do that…

"I've got a gutter soul, I'm no good to you – I drink too much, screw around too much – hell I've been playing with guns since I was ten years old. I'm everything you hate. But Sam's not like me. Sam's still a good kid, he's good on the inside, please…

"_Please_… Don't let him die like this. Don't let him waste away. He deserves better than that.

"Please… _Help_ me," Dean forced, putting his palm to his forehead and letting the rosary slip down his arm.

It was a horrible thing for him to have to say. _Help me_. He was pretty sure he hadn't said that since he was a boy, and admitting that he needed any kind of help was anathema to him – but for Sam, anything. Anything that was needed, anything at all.

Dean spent a few more minutes composing himself before putting the rosary into the glove compartment and starting the Impala's engine. The journey back to the motel was a difficult one, but it gave Dean a chance to think more about the case and less about his immediate pain.

If he could find the demon responsible for the parasite, perhaps he could make it reverse the damage. He didn't know for sure – but it had to be worth a try.

* * *

Bobby looked up to the door as a knock resounded on the solid wood. He stood to answer it warily. He peered out of the crack between the door and the jamb to see Dean standing on the step, looking slightly sheepish. In his haste to leave, he'd forgotten to take his key. Bobby swung the door wide, allowing the younger man access. Dean's eyes immediately fell on his brother, still curled in the bed like a baby opossum.

The two men did not speak for a moment, but Dean raised his eyes to Bobby as he closed the door. Bobby nodded.

"All right?" he asked warily. Dean shook his head in response, but said nothing to support the gesture. Dean was about to open his mouth and speak, but Bobby beat him to the punch.

"He's fine. Been asleep since you left." Dean smirked and nodded. As though he couldn't truly believe it unless he saw it with his own eyes, Dean walked quietly across to the sleeping form in the bed.

"I'm not giving up on him, Bobby," Dean said quietly, watching as his exhausted brother slept the sleep of the dead.

"I wouldn't expect any different of you boys," Bobby said, and smirked.

"You still with us?" Dean asked. Bobby shrugged.

"Hell, it's not as though I've got anything else to do," he said. Dean nodded and said,

"Then I've got work to do. You okay to watch Sam?"

"Yeah. Set Sam's laptop up and I'll do some more research – see if I can find anything like this, or if we can find that other person."

Dean paused at this.

"Hold that thought," he said, and ran outside again, this time with his key. Bobby stood bewildered for a moment before sitting down at the table and pouring over the file he'd liberated from the Impala along with the First Aid Kit before Dean had left on his grief-filled sojourn.

Within minutes, Dean returned with a local newspaper under his arm. He put it down on the table and flicked through it, finally stopping at the obits and mispers. He opened the paper right out, turned it and pushed it towards Bobby.

"The girl in Marshall knew Sam. Sam knew there were other people with him and how many; he might recognise the other person who was in the Box with him.

"Maybe he or she'll still be able to communicate…" Dean didn't look over at Sam, but Bobby could tell that he wanted to.

"When Sam wakes up, ask him if he recognises anyone. Do a-"

"A search on the Internet, find all the mispers in the last six months, ask at the motel reception – Dean… You're teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs," Bobby said reproachfully. Dean sniffed and looked away.

"Sorry."

"Uh huh."

* * *

The hot water of the shower was a tonic to his body. Dean stood beneath the stream of water, encapsulated by the sound and the steam. He closed his eyes as he rinsed his face and hair, feeling several days of stubble on his unshaven cheeks. Suddenly he sighed, overcome with tiredness. He'd been shot, and hadn't even been able to sleep enough to begin repairing that damage yet. Still, with Sam's attacks getting more frequent, time was an asset he had precious little of.

He was just going to have to be tired.

The shower was a quick one. When he had finished, he got into a pair of trusty, torn jeans and a set of clean shirts. His ruined dress shirt was starting to carry the cloying scent of old blood, and he was more than pleased to be rid of it. There was no time to shave, although he did consider it briefly. As he did every time after he showered, he pulled the leather thong which carried the minute brass mask over his head and straightened it. Dressing wasn't dressing without it.

After a quick farewell to Bobby, and a silent one to Sam, Dean was on the road again, heading towards Montevideo and the Box. His guns were loaded and his determination was fired. This time he wanted answers, and he was determined to get them.

* * *

"I know it's been hard for you. I'm glad you've found some answers," Dean overheard a man in beige palazzo pants and a white shirt say to a young girl in the coffee shop. He listened carefully while waiting for his black coffee to arrive in a booth in the corner. In addition, he'd ordered an all American breakfast that had seemed appealing at the time, but he didn't really have much of an appetite.

He thanked the waitress who brought him his coffee, and, for lack of anything better to do, listened in to the conversation happening in the booth next to him.

"I couldn't have done it without you," said the girl. She lifted a cup of coffee and drank from it slowly. "You were always there – I don't know how you did it, but… You made the fear and the anger go away."

"You wanted it to go away," said the man, who sipped his own coffee. Dean rubbed his chin and followed the trend, drinking from his own cup and pretending to read the paper.

"I only facilitated that."

"Thank you anyway," said the girl. "You and your group of friends stopped me…becoming a monster."

Dean's attention snagged over those words, and he looked around. True, it could have been a simple phrase, but in his line of work you took any such comment literally.

"It's okay. We'd do it again."

"But…" and at this, the girl's voice saddened. The man with her smiled gently.

"It's what he wanted," he said, putting his hand over hers.

"But how can you do that? How can you-"

"Not here," replied the man, and looked directly at Dean. He looked back at him, shrugged and drank a swig of coffee again as his breakfast arrived. When he turned back, the booth next to him was empty.

There was definitely something going on there that warranted further investigation.

On top of their suspicious conversation, the girl had looked vaguely familiar.

He ate breakfast quickly, and when his waitress returned he asked,

"Those people who were next to me – were they regulars?"

"Yes. Why?" she asked. Dean clocked the name on the older woman's ID badge and said,

"I need to have a talk with them, Judith," and flashed his US Marshall ID. She looked taken aback.

"Zach's not in trouble, is he?" she asked. Dean shook his head, giving Judith a charming smile.

"No, not at all. We're just looking into cults in the area, and I was hoping that he'd be able to help me out. You don't happen to know where I can find him, do you?"

"And he's not in trouble?" Judith asked again, her face stern. Dean reassured her that he wasn't, that he would just be helping with his enquiries.

"Well… He runs a little organization from his house over on 58th Street," she said, and scribbled the address down for Dean on her order pad, tearing the sheet off and handing it to him. "Does a lot of good work."

"Don't you cause him any trouble," she said, her expression firm. Dean shook his head and raised his hands in a 'not at all' motion.

"Oh, and another thing, Judith – you can't tell me where I can find the Box, can you?" he asked, flashing another patented smile before finishing one last mouthful of coffee.

_

* * *

_

Thank you very much for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story so far! Come by again soon! :)


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's Note: **_::rushes:: I'm not too late am I? D: Okay…four weeks is pretty late :/ Sorry for making you wait. Thank you very much for all the awesome feedback I've been getting, though! :-D Glad you're still enjoying it!

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

_**Eyes of a Stranger**_

_**Chapter Seven**_

Dean shut the door of the Impala behind him when he got out of the car, and looked up at the imposing building before him. It was painted pitch black and stood for three storeys. Its windows were blacked out with masonry paint which was peeling in swathes, revealing the wire reinforced glass panes beneath. Across the front was a large fluorescent sign, currently turned off but easy enough to read in the bright light of day.

The Box.

For a few moments, Dean continued to stand by his car and examine the building. He glanced around, very aware of the strong daylight. Sure, he was packing – but any out of the ordinary activity was likely to get him arrested and the last thing he needed was to have his criminal record dug up and thrown at him. This was of particular concern as he'd be separated from Sam – possibly for a long, long time.

Disquieted by this thought, Dean walked towards the building. As he drew closer, a man approached him from the side – the same man he had seen talking in the café. Dean immediately turned to him, not wishing to leave his side exposed.

"I know who you are," the man said. Dean smirked.

"That's a big claim there, d-"

"You're a hunter." Dean's hand immediately slid to the back of his waistband and rested on the 1911. The man in the white shirt shook his head.

"I'm not a threat. I promise.

"My name is Zach," Zach said, and extended a hand. Dean shook it warily, his hand still on the Colt.

"Shall we drink?" Zach said, indicating a nearby coffee shop.

"That's not a drink." Dean pointed to a bar on a corner not a hundred feet away. "_That's_ a drink." Zach pulled a face at this.

"I'm trying to give up," he said. Dean raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Please take your hand off your weapon, Dean," Zach said. This in fact had the opposite effect; Dean's hand tightened on the metal and ivory grip, startled slightly at this man's level of knowledge about him.

"What are you?" Dean said, his voice low. "How do you even-"

"Dean Winchester, brother of Sam, son of John," Zach interrupted. At the mention of his brother's name, Dean stiffened and actually withdrew the Colt from his waistband. He made sure Zach could see it, whilst keeping it hidden beneath his jacket to passers-by.

"Seriously, we need to talk," Zach said, eyeing Dean warily. "It's about what's going on in there," and he indicated The Box. "Look, I might be able to help."

"I might be able to help Sam."

Dean may not have let the flinch show outwardly, but he felt it spark through his chest like an electric charge.

"Sam doesn't need your help," Dean said, torn between emptying a clip into this guy and listening. Zach sighed and stepped closer.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this yet," he said, and blinked slowly - revealing the black sclera which exposed him as a demon. Dean snapped forward instantly and grabbed him by the throat with one hand – and was stunned when Zach did nothing to stop him.

"I'll let you..." Zach croaked, his throat constricted by Dean's grasp. Dean paused just long enough for people to turn and start staring, long enough for Zach's face to turn scarlet, before he finally let go.

"What the Hell…?" Dean said, standing back from Zach as the latter rubbed his neck.

"If it's what you want, I'll let you send me back," Zach said hoarsely. "But there is something in this for you, too."

There was a pause as Dean considered this reluctantly. He knew he couldn't afford not to listen.

"Let's talk," Dean said, and grabbed Zach's arm, pushing him ahead of him towards the coffee shop. Zach stumbled, but regained his balance quickly and continued to walk.

They were seated quickly in a booth by the window in a quiet area of the café, at Zach's request.

"Talk," said Dean shortly, after they had each ordered a coffee. Zach nodded.

"I know about some of the things that have been happening at The Box. It's owned by a man called Giles Davis – only Giles hasn't been Giles for a while.

"Some demons have been doing all kinds of experiments down there on people, trying to find 'new and interesting' ways to dominate humans. My guys have been trying to pull them out-"

"Your guys?" Dean interrupted. Zach merely nodded. A server approached their table and they immediately stopped speaking as she poured them each a coffee and left creamer on the table. Zach picked it up and poured some into his coffee, followed by three sugars.

"There are a group of us.

"Some of us… Some of us aren't like the others."

"All demons are the same," Dean said, a snarl in his voice. "You just want to kill as many humans as you can, to screw up as many people as you can possibly manage to."

"That's not true. Some of us are…different," Zach said. He looked into his coffee thoughtfully, whereas Dean hadn't touched his.

"I mean," Zach continued, "not all humans are the same, right?

"No-one's the same as Sam…right?"

"You're not fit to even talk about Sam, so shut up," Dean said, anger clear in his voice as it rose two notches. Zach smirked.

"I'm right, then?"

"I'm not having this conversation with a demon.

"Actually, I can't believe I _am_ having this conversation with a demon," Dean said, as much to himself as to anyone else.

"Anyway. We've been trying to get back all the people who've been taken in at The Box – but we haven't managed to save everyone. Not at all.

"Normally they take people from the dance floors on a Friday or a Saturday and carry them off into the pits downstairs. None of their friends or family see them for days on end, sometimes weeks – then when they come back they're changed; not at all like themselves." Zach sipped from his coffee cup and pulled a face as Dean took a brief swig from his own cup – it was clear that coffee wasn't Zach's drink of choice.

"Sam's circle were the first ones we managed to get to. Even then, we could only save one." Zach added another sugar to his coffee and looked up at Dean.

"Number eight," Dean said. Zach raised his eyebrows.

"You're good at your job."

"I wouldn't still be sitting here if I wasn't," Dean said. "There's a message for you there, somewhere."

"Don't worry; I'm not in a rush to go back to Hell," Zach said quietly. He stirred his coffee somewhat absently.

"So. Sam," he said suddenly, and Dean tensed. Zach caught Dean's miniscule movement and said,

"You know, they all know he's the only weapon they can use against you. And vice-versa." Dean sniffed dismissively and rubbed his nose, partially disguising the smirk on his face.

"You don't know anything about me and Sam," he said, leaning back in the booth seat. Zach smiled.

"They know enough. Most of them know about the deal, and most of them understand that a deal like that is struck through desperation and nothing else.

"They know more than you think, Dean." The bestubbled hunter sobered almost instantly.

"So. You said you might be able to help Sam." Dean said, changing the subject to something he found more pressing and less intimidating.

"And others like him," Zach said, nodding.

"So? How?" Dean asked, taking another swig of his coffee. Zach smiled.

"You'll have to come back to my place. I've got some stuff you need to see."

"That your best pick-up line?" Dean smirked. Zach's smirk mirrored Dean's.

"It's the only one I know that doesn't involve me running off with the maiden." Dean raised his eyebrows at his companion's comment.

"So… What's in it for you?" he asked, his face once again stern and uncompromising. Zach looked uncomfortable.

"Redemption," he said eventually.

"Redemption?" Dean repeated incredulously. Zach fiddled with the packets of sugar awkwardly.

"Some of us believe… If we do enough, if we try enough to help the humans…

"God might redeem us."

Dean didn't even bother trying to restrain his laughter. When he regained his composure, he said,

"There is no redemption for demons. There's just me."

"What makes you so sure?" the demon asked. Dean just stared at him before snickering into his coffee.

"There's no _God_. I can't believe in any god that could let the crap that happens happen."

"But you believe in Hell?"

"I believe in what I can see with my own two eyes." Dean said, drinking the last of his coffee.

"So you've seen Hell?" Zach pushed. Dean met his gaze, and did not back down.

"I've seen what comes out of Hell. I've see the Devil's Gate opened and I've lost half my family to the Yellow-Eyed Demon.

"I've seen enough to convince me."

"To a disbeliever, no proof is enough. To a believer, no proof is needed," Zach said.

"You're awful preachy for a demon," Dean replied after a pause.

For a moment they sat, not speaking, mentally weighing each other up. Zach soon finished his coffee and then the two of them had nothing left to do with their hands. It was Dean's instinct to fill his with his 1911 – if not for the suggestion of help for Sam and a room full of people, he'd have probably emptied a clip into the demon before him just for the principle. He didn't like any demons, but this one was unpredictable - and therefore even more dangerous than many of the others that he'd faced.

"Your place is on 58th Street, right?" Dean asked eventually. Zach nodded.

"How'd you know?"

"I'm good at my job," Dean said, flashing a brief and somewhat taut smile.

* * *

Sam blinked slowly as Bobby showed him another face, a cut-out from the newspaper. They sat, side by side at the table in the Winchester's motel room. Sam frowned, looking confused as Bobby said,

"Recognise this one?"

Eventually Sam shook his head and lifted exhausted eyes to Bobby. The older man sighed; Sam hadn't been awake for more than two hours and already he looked as though he might simply keel over and fall asleep again.

"You don't recognise any of them?" Bobby asked.

"If'n…see her…" Sam mumbled distractedly, and smacked his forehead. It seemed to Bobby as though he didn't even realise he couldn't communicate verbally anymore, and that saddened him still further.

"So… the person you saw was a her? Just nod," Bobby asked. Sam dutifully nodded.

It had been necessary for Bobby to cut out each picture in the mispers section of the newspaper. The full page had contained too much information for Sam to process, and he hadn't been able to clearly understand Bobby's instruction with such a big distraction.

Bobby collected all the cut outs again and held one out in front of Sam. Sam looked at Bobby as though to say 'Do we _have_ to do this again?' and Bobby looked slightly apologetic but did not move his hand.

"This one?"

Sam shook his head. Bobby lifted another face, a name typed in a small font beneath.

"This one?"

Again, Sam shook his head.

"Okay, how about this one?"

Once again, Sam shook his head. This time he yawned, his concentration waning.

"Sam. This is important," Bobby said, chiding the young man gently. He picked up another cut out and proffered it.

"How about this one?"

Sam paused this time, reaching out and touching the tiny piece of paper with his index finger. A flicker of recognition crossed his face.

"Mmmshe," he said nonsensically.

"This one?" Bobby asked, shaking the cut out, wanting Sam to reaffirm so that he could be sure. Sam looked at Bobby and bit his lip. He looked back at the picture and held out his hand for it. Bobby, confused but compliant, put it in Sam's palm. Sam immediately put the same palm to his forehead and closed his eyes. He rocked for a minute gently back and forth, before opening his eyes and pulling his palm away. The thin newspaper piece stuck to his forehead and for a moment Bobby sat staring at it, before Sam looked into his palm in confusion, looking for the little square of paper.

In other circumstances, Bobby might have laughed – but the situation was becoming so dire that there was no opportunity to see the humour in anything. Instead of laughing, he reached forward and tugged the small sheet from the younger man's forehead and put it back on the table.

"You're sure you recognise her?" Bobby asked, and Sam nodded. Bobby turned back to the table and picked up another pile of slightly bigger squares and laid them out on the worn melamine printed-paper table top. He knew that Sam couldn't read the small text on the picture anymore, and wanted to see if he could remember the name of the girl in question.

A, B, C, D…

Bobby had written out the alphabet on the medium-sized squares in thick black pen, as clearly as he'd been able to. As he laid out the last few letters before his charge, he said to Sam,

"Can you remember her name, son?"

Sam stopped to think about this. Bobby could see the thought process happening on his face as he fought and fought to clasp onto the memory of the name given to the girl in the picture.

"Okay, let's try something else. Where did you see her?" Bobby asked after a pause. Sam fidgeted and scratched his cheek – stubble was starting to grow thickly there. He reached out a finger and Bobby watched as the man's hand drifted towards letters and tapped them clumsily, with a pause between each touch.

B-O-X

"Okay, that's what I thought you'd say. Now, can you remember her name?"

Once again, Sam stopped to think.

Eventually, he reached his hand out again.

A-L-I-C-E

"Alice. You sure?" Bobby asked. Sam nodded and Bobby gave him a smile; that confirmed the name in the paper.

"You remember her family name?" Bobby asked. Sam looked at him pitifully. Bobby nodded in encouragement.

"You can do it, Sam. I believe you can do it."

Sam closed his eyes for some time, and after a while Bobby thought he'd gone to sleep. He was about to prod him when Sam opened his eyes and extended his hand again.

F-I-S-H-E-R

"Alice Fisher?" Bobby prompted. Sam nodded. Bobby mirrored Sam's reaction, pleased with how this was going.

"Once more, Sam. Just one more for now.

"Do you know where she was from?" he asked, but Sam immediately shook his head.

"You're sure? You never talked about it?" Bobby asked. Sam looked distressed for a moment, and Bobby felt immediately sorry for him – but he couldn't afford to forego the knowledge if it was in Sam's head. Innocent lives depended on it.

Once again, Sam closed his eyes. He hit his muddled head with folded fingers, and clamped his teeth together. The answer was longer coming this time, but it did come, and it arrived with the ghost of a triumphant smile from Sam.

D-A-W-S-O-N

"Dawson, over in Minnesota?" Bobby prompted. Sam nodded. He scratched his head, looking slightly bewildered and shivered.

Suddenly, Bobby's attention was taken by a noise outside the door. He got to his feet cautiously; it wouldn't do to be taken by surprise with Sam in his current state. He reached to his waistband for his gun – but then heard the key turn in the lock and allowed himself to relax a little.

Dean opened the door and walked inside, closing it quickly behind him.

"Dean. You're back sooner than I thought you'd be. Everything all right?" Bobby asked. Dean raised both eyebrows.

"I got some new information from a source you're not gonna believe. Hell, I don't know if _I_ should believe him."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Yeah – but we've got a little time, for now," Dean said. He walked across to Sam, who let out a sigh – which Dean liked to think might be relief. A gentle smile tugged at his lips and he reached out clumsily for his brother's shirt. He locked his hand into the tails and tugged, his hand twisted and unable to form a strong grip.

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed firmly.

"You all right?" he asked. Sam nodded, letting his head fall after the second nod. Dean took his chin and lifted it, so he could look his brother in the eye.

Sam looked tired – the kind of bone tired state Dean had only ever seen him once or twice before. His skin was pale and his eyes were red-rimmed. Part of that, Dean suspected, was the continuing effect of the salt from the day before; but not all of it could be attributed to that. It hurt too much to acknowledge it, so Dean didn't – but more and more it seemed that Sam was dying.

"Have you eaten?" Dean asked, falling back on what he knew. Sam pulled a face and cast tired eyes to Bobby. Dean looked at the older man expectantly.

"He won't eat. I tried, but he won't take anything," the older man said. Dean looked back to Sam.

"You're not eating?

"_Why?_" he asked, his voice hard.

Sam looked uncomfortable and tried to wriggle out of Dean's grip. Dean shook his head.

"No, no, no, you need to keep your strength up. You want me to force-feed you? There'll be a lot of emphasis on force, you understand?" he said firmly. Sam looked at Dean with reproach.

"Don't you look at me like that," Dean said, his voice unequivocal. "I'm not letting you go, Sammy, you hear me?" He finally let go of his brother's chin and Sam held up his head for a few moments before letting it hang again. Dean stepped closer, understanding that he was so tired he could barely lift his head – and that he might need support he couldn't ask for. Sam swallowed, resting his head on Dean's arm and looked tiredly across the room, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

"How long has he been awake for, Bobby?" Dean asked as the older man sat back down in one of the wooden chairs. Bobby shook his head.

"Only a couple hours. Looks like we've been keeping him awake for a week, don't it?"

Dean took a deep breath and sighed, rubbing his cheek. His fingers were lost for a moment in his developing beard – it was getting to the itchy stage, and was beginning to irritate him.

"We're turning into a couple of fuzzy faces, Sammy. Before we know it, we're going to look like Bushy over there," Dean indicated Bobby with a nod of his head, and Bobby snorted, shaking his head at Dean's humour. Dean nodded to himself.

"Sam? If Bobby gets us some food, will you at least try to eat?" he asked of his brother, who was still lolling on his arm. After a pause, Sam nodded. Dean looked at Bobby, and he nodded.

Suddenly, with a start, he realised nobody was clamped to Sam.

"What happened to the chain?" Dean asked. Bobby extended a hand in Sam's direction.

"Look at him, Dean. Does he really look like he's going anywhere?" the older man said. The words stung, but after a pause, Dean nodded.

Bobby put his hand out. Dean looked confused.

"Keys please." Bobby said. Dean dug in his pocket for the motel key, but as he made to hand it to Bobby, the man shook his head.

"_Other_ keys. My car's still in Marshall, remember?" Dean pulled a face and tugged the keys to the Impala out of his pocket.

"You've driven her more in the last two days than Sam has in six months.

"Don't you go turning her head," Dean said, regretfully tossing Bobby the car keys. Bobby caught them deftly and smiled, an edge of triumph in his expression.

"Well, she's a nice lookin' gal," he said, getting out of the chair.

"Don't you be getting any ideas about my baby," Dean said firmly, pointing accusingly at Bobby. The bearded man snickered and headed for the door.

As he closed it behind him, Dean turned his full attention to Sam, who was drifting off to sleep on the chair next to him.

"C'mon, Sammy. You must be as itchy as me," Dean said. He pulled Sam to his feet, which was becoming more and more of a task. The youngest Winchester was difficult to control now; he could still stand up on his own two feet, but only just.

Dean herded him through to the bathroom and sat him down on the lid of the toilet seat. Sam huffed, blinking tiredly and resting his head against the side of the sink while Dean half-filled the basin with water.

The elder Winchester had emptied out their bathroom kit when he'd showered that morning, and so Sam's razor and shaving cream were out on the counter. Typically, the two of them could not even agree on a shaving cream; there were always two different containers wherever they went. Dean grabbed a chair from the main room and took it through to the bathroom, reversing it and putting it in front of Sam.

Dean pushed Sam's razor and shaving cream towards the edge of the counter and sat in the chair before his brother. Sam pulled away from the sink and looked at Dean; he knew what he had in mind. Dean squirted some of the shaving cream into his palm and spread it across the lower half of Sam's face and over his thickening beard.

"C'mon; it'll be like when I first showed you how to do it," Dean smiled. It occurred to him that Sam probably didn't remember that in his current state, but his brother smiled and reached out a hand for the wooden bars of the chair Dean sat in.

"You do remember that."

Dean was overcome suddenly, but sniffed back his emotions. It was stupid, he thought. Why did something so small matter so much?

_Because Dad missed so many of those first times_ _and you had to do them_, Dean's mind provided for him. Dean made a lot of noise about being proud of himself, and could fool everybody but Sam. The truth was he was proud of so little that he did, that all of those moments he'd protected Sam, or shown him something new, or provided for him meant more than any others.

It had been Dean who'd taken Sam to school on all those first days when they were moving from town to town, who'd taken him to his classroom and dared all the other kids with his eyes to even think about picking on _his _little brother. Dean who'd shown Sam how to write his name. Dean who'd taught Sam how to tell the time. Dean who'd explained that yes, Sam's Adam's Apple really did need to be there, even though it had pretty much turned up overnight. Dean who'd explained to an utterly mortified thirteen year old Sammy what a wet dream was and that it was perfectly normal.

The night Sam had left for college, Dean had cried for hours. It had been like losing his brother; he'd _grieved_ for Sam, mourned the hole left in his life by the absence of the only creature ever to look up to him or value him in the way he wanted. The method of his leaving had been so violent, so rending that it was almost like he'd died. There was little comfort for Dean in knowing he'd been out there somewhere; out there living without him, existing out of the reach of his protection.

He would protect him now, as he had always done. Of that there was no doubt.

With a practised hand Dean drew the razor along Sam's jaw line, tugging the skin taut. He pulled the sharp implement from just beneath his sideburns in one long stroke to just before his chin. He rinsed the razor in the sink and began again in a similar stroke, this time further in towards Sam's cheek.

"We'll get you fixed up, Sammy. I promise. I'm nearly there, just…stick with me," Dean said, moving on to his brother's chin and making quick work of the stubbly beard there. He lifted Sam's chin with his thumb and, with a firm but extremely careful hand, drew the razor downwards over Sam's throat. It was testament to Sam's faith in Dean that he didn't flinch, wasn't alerted by Dean's touch even in such a vulnerable area.

Dean made quick work of the rest of his task; he knew Sam was tired and wanted to get him settled so that he could shave his own face and stop the damned itching. Finally finishing with the razor, he rinsed it once more in the sink and put it on the counter. He pulled the plug and rinsed out the sink, running hot water over a face cloth. Sitting back down in the chair briefly, he wiped the remaining shaving foam off of Sam's face with the hot cloth. Sam closed his eyes as Dean patted off the determined remnants of the soap in firm movements and then gave him the face cloth.

"Wipe the rest of your face, dude. I don't want to think about the last time you showered." Dean said, standing and taking the chair back to the main room.

Sam did as he was asked and then threw the cloth back into the sink. Dean returned and, helping him back to his feet, led him back into the man room and sat him down on the bed.

"You're not allowed to sleep until you've eaten something," Dean instructed, "so you're just gonna have to hold on a little while longer." Sam nodded, even as he snuggled into the bed, half-covering himself in the bedclothes.

* * *

When Dean returned from his shave, he found his brother in a state of deep sleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He was tangled in the bedcovers as though they had attacked him and he'd fallen asleep in mid-defence. Dean sighed, frustrated, and walked across to Sam, pulling the covers out of their tangled position and throwing them fully over his noncompliant brother.

"That, Sammy, is definitely sleeping," Dean said as he sat on the next bed. He hadn't even slept in it yet; although he was exhausted himself, his ticking mind wouldn't let him rest. Not until Sam was out of danger, and at the moment they were still on the razor's edge of 'definitely not safe'.

He rubbed his newly shaven face, and a wave of tiredness flooded over him. It probably wouldn't hurt to nap, would it? He could sleep right here, leave his shoes on so he could run if he needed to – Sam was right by him, he could at least make some noise if he was in trouble…

* * *

Dean was woken by a rapping at the door. Startled, he sat straight up, not remembering being asleep. There was a tantalisingly close memory of drifting in and out of consciousness, but his rude awakening had pushed it out of reach. He got up quickly, moving towards the door in stealth mode. He looked quickly at Sam; the noise didn't seem to have woken him and he remained trapped by the vicelike grip of deep sleep.

There was another rap on the door, and this time a familiar voice could be heard.

"It's me," Bobby called through the heavy door. Dean opened it quickly, pulling back the safety latch and allowing the older man access. He brought with him a bag of takeaway from a local drive through and Dean took it, peering into it as Bobby shut the door behind him.

"Didn't make it, huh?" Bobby said, looking at Sam sprawled on the bed. Dean bristled at the use of that particular phrase, but said nothing.

"Who got what?" Dean said, proffering the bag by way of explanation. Bobby shrugged. Dean put his hand in the bag and pulled out a cheeseburger, handing the rest back to Bobby for the time being.

They pulled up the chairs and ate, working their way through the bag. Dean decided that seeing as Sam wasn't going to get to each his cheeseburger, it was a shame to waste it and ate that too.

As they ate, Dean explained about Zach, from his eavesdropping on Zach's conversation to talking to him in the coffee shop and going back to his house. Bobby listened with surprise.

"Well, you know you can't trust a demon," Bobby said through the last of a mouthful. Dean nodded.

"I know.

"But what choice do I have? Sam's-" Dean cut himself off and attacked his cheeseburger again, but this time with more venom and a frown on his face.

"I know you've got to do what you can for Sam, Dean – but just think about this. You know what liars demons are. How do you know that everything he said to you isn't a lie?"

"I don't.

"But the stuff he had – Bobby, he had everything. Plans of the building, studies of the demons, patterns of movement, MOs, lists of missing people. It's crazy, I know, but…

"I don't know, Dean. It'd be easy to slip you some false information. What evidence did he give you that he could help Sam?" Bobby asked. Dean couldn't meet his eyes.

"He didn't."

"So you don't actually know if he can."

"I'll take anything right now, Bobby." The older man was silent for a moment.

"Don't believe him just because you're desperate for an answer, Dean. They know you're vulnerable right now. They know you're each other's only weakness," he said. Dean shook his head.

"That's what the demon said. But they're wrong.

"If I died, Sam would get on with it. He might not like it, but he wouldn't give up."

"And you? Would you give up?" Bobby asked. Dean silently finished his mouthful before speaking again.

"I wouldn't have any reason to fight anymore," he admitted quietly. It was as far as Bobby had ever got into Dean's defences, and he treated that with the respect it deserved. The man nodded, silent for a moment. Dean tucked into his fries distractedly; eating now because he wanted to rather than because he needed to. It was something to distract himself; a rhythmic movement he could lose himself in.

"So. What happened here? What's with all the cut-out letters?" Dean asked, indicating the pile of small squares on the table. Bobby rifled through them and pulled out the picture of the girl Sam had identified.

"Sam pretty much can't speak now. He doesn't make any sense at all.

"But his mind's still working on some level. He identified our other missing person-" Bobby held up the picture for Dean to see – "and her name's Alice Fisher."

Dean choked on a fry as he snatched the picture out of Bobby's hand. Coughing, he held the picture up before him and scrutinised it.

"This is the girl who was sitting with him!" he exclaimed. Bobby's eyebrows raised.

"With the demon?"

"Oh yeah. That's her. Shoulder length dark hair, blue eyes…sweet smile…" Dean looked wistful as he shrugged.

"So he found our victim number eight?" Bobby asked.

"Found and saved, if we can trust him at his word," Dean said as he nodded. "Let's face it, Bobby – what demon in his right mind would admit to wanting in to Heaven?"

"Don't go running before you can walk. You've dealt with Tricksters before – demons aren't always so different."

"I need to talk to Sam," Dean sighed, rubbing salt from his fingers and throwing his trash into the brown bag. Bobby shook his head.

"You can't. Mostly he can understand you, but there's no way for him to talk back."

"Not here." Dean said, standing up and holding the bag open for Bobby's trash. The older man looked suspicious.

"I just need to crack open the African dream root," Dean said, treading to the trash can and binning the bag. Dean turned to find Bobby looking at him, aghast.

"You're kidding me."

"No?" Dean said in confusion.

"You can't seriously be thinking of going into Sam's head?" Bobby said, his contempt for this idea clear in his voice.

"Why?"

"Dean, it's a minefield in there. It's not safe - who knows what might happen? Sam's mind isn't complete; you could be trapped in there or anything. You get separated from your body that long… You know what happened to me.

"Sam's brain is so damaged he could end up killing you himself. He's not going to be able to control himself, even if he knows you're there through the dream root."

"That's a chance I'm going to have to take," Dean said, lifting his chin slightly, as though daring the older man to refute it. "Sam's the only one I trust to confirm what the demon told me about the inside of The Box. If Sam can verify that for me, then I can trust what Zach says – at least a bit."

"And I'm supposed to do what while you're in there tripping the light fantastic?" Bobby asked with anger in his voice. Dean shrugged.

"You can wake Sam up in an hour. That way, if I can't get myself out, I'll be forced out when he wakes up."

"Do you even have any dream root?" Bobby asked, deliberately putting obstacles between Dean and his potentially disastrous folly. Dean nodded.

"Sam insisted on keeping hold of what was left over from before. There's enough for about one cup of the tea." Bobby shook his head.

"You kids scare the crap out of me. What is it with you Winchesters and suicidally throwing yourselves after each other?"

"I think you already know the answer to that," Dean said as he took the Impala's keys from the table where Bobby had left them and headed outside to get the dream root from the trunk.

* * *

Dean sat on the bed adjacent to Sam's, the hot tea in his hands. Gingerly, he tugged out a few strands of Sam's hair and pulled a face as he put them in the tea. The younger Winchester fidgeted at the sudden spike of pain, but did not wake. Dean sniffed before glancing at Bobby, who sat sentinel at the end of the beds and said,

"Well. Bottoms up."

"Hope not," replied Bobby as the younger man drank from the cup. Almost immediately he dropped backwards onto the bed, taking the empty cup with him. Bobby took a deep breath and sighed it out.

Now all he could do was wait.

_

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Thank you very much for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story so far! Come back soon now, y'hear? :)


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_**my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's Note: **_asdhfgdshkfg Okay, so I give up trying to get these out on time. ::groans:: Sorry. If only I could sit home all day and write (although if the quality of this chapter is anything to go by, that ain't gonna happen)… Hopefully there's still a few of you who haven't got fed up waiting yet! XD

_**Points to note:**__This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

_**

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Eyes of a Stranger

_**Chapter Eight**_

It was dark. That was the first thing Dean thought as he found himself sitting in the motel room alone. No Bobby, no Sam - just an empty, cold, shadowy room. He shivered, finding it hard not to associate his current loneliness with being without Sam. He stood and walked to the window, watching patches of grey move by as though he were standing in a room trapped in rain clouds. He opened the door slowly, and stepped out into the grey, his nerves tightened to the sticking point.

He could feel his mind emptying as the greyness swirled around him. He closed his eyes – suddenly he wanted to stay here; there was no grief, no concern. However, there was also something disturbing happening to his mind as he realised his memories were evaporating. He couldn't remember why he was here – or even where 'here' was. If he closed his eyes he could reach out, feel something vital tantalizingly close – but still out of his grip.

It was as though he'd forgotten how to walk – forgotten he had legs to walk with. There was something…something he'd come here for, now what was it? What was it? He turned, remembering something about a door – but there was nothing behind him, nothing to explain that feeling. The feeling of assurance he had experienced before began to fade, replaced with a sensation of anxiousness. He felt utterly alone, totally secluded here amidst the grey, trying to remember, trying to reach back to something he knew, trying to set eyes on his own hands as he struggled in the swirling greyscale.

He felt spots of water on his face and looked upwards. He could see no rain, and it took him a moment to realise that the droplets were warm. He touched his face briefly and suddenly he could see the tears that came away on his fingers.

"Sammy?" he said, his voice almost lost in a gasping breath as he realised that this must be what it was like to be Sam right now – to be lost in a myriad of disconnected memories, muddled words and surrounded by insecurity.

Dean looked up, shaken by this realisation. The grey had cleared almost immediately upon his epiphany, and before him stood a building that looked all too familiar.

The last time he'd seen this building, he had been driving Sam away from it. The air in the car had been heavy with his grief, his loss – the smell of burning still in their clothes, their hair, smoke still thickening their breathing. Dean had known he was unable to salve Sam's silent tears, and so he had said nothing; staying stoically silent and watchful of his brother nonetheless; a voiceless sentinel of strength.

This was the apartment block Sam had made his home, that he'd spent two years at college in. The home he'd shared with Jessica until her untimely death at the hands of the Yellow Eyed Demon.

Despite the darkness of night, the moon was bright in the sky and it illuminated a figure sitting on a wall in the parking lot. He seemed to be looking up at the building. He ran his hand through his hair and Dean's suspicions were confirmed – he'd know that silhouette anywhere.

"Sam," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He made his way quickly towards the figure, half running, half walking. As he approached, he could see Sam more clearly and noticed his hunched position. His elbows rested on his thighs, and his hands were clasped together. For a moment, Dean didn't know how best to approach him. He was unsure whether it would be better to touch him, or to call his name…

Eventually, he decided to simply sit beside him on the wall. After all, that's what he'd done on that fateful morning – sat silently beside his brother, providing what silent protection he could against the rigors of emotion.

Sam took a deep breath and turned to his brother. His smile was weak and pensive.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said after a moment or two. Dean smiled back tersely.

"Hey, yourself."

The pair were silent for a while. Dean followed Sam's line of sight to the building. The burned area on the top floor where the fire had eaten the brickwork was missing; it seemed that either Sam was deliberately dreaming it away, or that his memory currently couldn't produce it.

"It's driving me crazy," Sam said after a while. Dean looked puzzled.

"This building. I know… I know I should know who lives here. But I don't. I can't remember, Dean." Sam's expression twisted into one of distress and he spread his hands, looking back to his brother. Dean tried hard to keep the grief off his face, but even in his dreams Dean was an open book to Sam.

"What is it?" Sam asked. "Do you know? Dean if you know, you gotta tell me."

"Don't _got_ to do anything, Sammy," Dean said, falling back on his instinct to protect Sam no matter what. It was in their family line to keep secrets in the interest of protecting each other – why stop that now? Sure, he could tell Sam the truth; 'Hey Sammy, this is the place you lived in for two years – probably the only real home you ever knew – oh, and by the way it's where your girlfriend got turned into crispy bacon'. Yeah. Not gonna happen.

"Dean. Does this building mean _anything_ to you? Anything at all?" Sam asked, his expression firm. Dean sniffed and shrugged casually.

"Doesn't mean anything to me," he said. It wasn't exactly a lie – the building didn't _mean _anything to him, he had no emotional attachment to it. He'd only met Jessica once. The building before him had just been the place he'd picked Sam up from, a building like any other.

Sam turned back to the building and frowned, running his hand through his hair again.

"It's like it's on the tip of my tongue. I know this place is important. But I…I don't know why."

Dean didn't respond at first. Instead, he made himself more comfortable beside his brother and mirrored his position exactly. They sat together silently, and it was as though they were in the car again; in that early morning sunrise, California in the wind behind them and a fracture in Sam's heart. Dean looked at Sam silently as his brother continued to watch the building. A breeze ruffled his hair, and finally he turned to Dean.

"Would you tell me? If you thought of something?" Dean thought for a moment, and then sniffed.

"I'll tell you if you can't remember in the morning," he said, his voice quiet. Sam smiled thankfully, seemingly satisfied with that.

"What are you doing here, Dean? I don't think I'm dreaming you," he asked, a perplexed look on his face.

"You're not. I drank trippy tea to get here," Dean replied, a wry smile on his face.

"You drank African dream root to get into my dreams?" Sam asked incredulously. "_Why_?"

"Because I need to talk to you, and right now you're a little loopier back there in the real world than you are here in La-La Land," Dean said bluntly.

"And quieter," he added, as an afterthought.

"Oh.

"What piece of me did you drink?"

"Hair – why does that matter?" Dean pulled a face. Sam grinned.

"No reason."

"Hair of the dog," Dean said playfully, and he was quickly given a thump on the leg for his trouble.

"Shut up," Sam said, shaking his head and fighting off the grin on his face.

"Did you come here just to insult me?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

"No, that's an added bonus," Dean shot back. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

For a moment they sat silently again, comfortable in each other's presence. Dean was aware that this wasn't real; that back in the waking world Sam wasn't whole, wasn't communicative – was literally sick to death. However, it didn't stop him wanting to extend this moment for as long as possible. Hell, if he couldn't-

There _was_no 'couldn't. There was only 'whenhe saved Sam', there was no 'if he couldn't save Sam'. He'd die before he failed Sam again.

"Sam… Do you remember Farmington?" Dean asked.

"New Mexico? Yeah, I remember. The haunted Brewery, right? We were looking into that - vengeful spirit. We salted and burned the bones; it can't come back from that, Dean," Sam said. Dean nodded.

"I know, but do you remember what happened next?" he asked. Sam paused, a deep thought process making itself known on his face.

Dean sighed, frustrated.

"Do you even remember going missing from Farmington?"

"I…" Sam began, but then his hand shot out and he clasped Dean's jacket sleeve. The look he gave Dean was one of terror. Dean immediately grabbed his brother's shoulder and kept eye contact with him as he said,

"Sam, I need you to tell me what happened. I need you to-"

"I was in the motel. I woke up; I don't know what woke me, but you weren't there. You were gone. But your boots – your boots were by the door and I knew that you weren't in the room, I couldn't hear you. I went to the door, went to see if you were outside, but the minute I opened the door, I was somewhere else…" Sam trailed off, still clutching at Dean's sleeve.

"I didn't leave that room, Sammy. The first I knew was waking up and _you _were missing – nobody saw you leave, all your stuff was left behind, everything was exactly as you'd left it. I called your cell but it was there in the room with me.

"I looked everywhere I could think of, called all the people we know, but nobody had seen you," Dean said, keen to make sure his brother knew that he'd tried to find him, that he hadn't just left him to the wolves.

"There was…there was this huge box…" Sam said. "There were others in there with me…" For a moment, Sam's squeezed his eyes shut in concentration.

"The Box. It was… I heard them say it was a club.

"We were downstairs. There was a dungeon downstairs… Dean, they did horrible things…" Sam trailed off, and Dean tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder.

"Look at me, Sam. You're not there now, okay? I've got you, tell me everything you know." Sam gripped the hand Dean had clasped on his shoulder, trying to strengthen the connection with his brother.

"I knew… I knew demons were bastards, Dean, but they took humans down there and tore them to pieces. Wherever we were, their misper numbers must have been crazy high. There were…seven others down there with me. Zeke… Patience… Ned… Conseja, Alex, Paige… One more – there was one more…"

"Alice?" Dean asked. Sam nodded.

"Yes! Alice.

"I think… I think they were experimenting on us, Dean," and at this realisation Sam looked horrified. Dean's expression was stoic, but inside he burned with anger and with fear.

Experiment? What kind of twisted experiments was a demon capable of? Is that what they thought Sam was, some kind of lab rat? This was some kind of Hellish free-for-all and Sam was the mark?

"They would cut bits off of people and put them in jars – they were culturing something," Sam said, his forehead beaded with sweat. His gaze dropped from Dean's and he scanned the area around them for some kind of security, some kind of reassurance.

"I wish I'd had the Colt, Dean," Sam said, and the look he gave his brother was one of the most disturbed Dean had ever seen.

"What did they do to you?" Dean asked – and at this Sam shook his head. Tears filled his eyes and fell, rolling off his cheeks and spattering onto Dean's arm. Though it pained him, Dean ignored them and gave Sam no quarter. He needed to know what he was going into in the Box – he needed Sam to confirm what Zach had told him about the victims, about what they might have suffered.

"They…

"They did do something to me. They left us alone for a while. For days we sat in cages that were too small for us, unable to move and not provided with any food. Some of us were given water to drink. Some of us were given blood," and at this, Sam flinched. It took all of Dean's control not to react to that, but when he spoke his voice was strained and thin.

"What did you get?"

"Water," Sam said, and Dean couldn't hide his relief at that.

After a pause, Sam continued. Dean was unable to lock eyes with Sam anymore; his gaze was somewhere at Dean's feet and he was watching grey tendrils of cloud swirl lazily at his brother's boots.

"I tried to get out loads of times, but I couldn't – they tied my neck to the bars of the cage and my hands to my ankles.

"Eventually, it was just me left – they'd taken all the others. Dean, I couldn't save them…" and Sam lifted his haunted stare to Dean from where it had languished at ground level.

"I don't know what happened to them.

"I…I can still hear them screaming…" Sam shivered under Dean's hand, still steadfastly gripping his shoulder.

"You can't save everybody, Sammy. We both know that. There's only one person I care about saving right now, and that's you," Dean said. He shook his head briefly. It was as though he could feel cold fingers in his mind, separating him from his memories, from his concentration. Dean needed all his smarts for this; this was important – vital.

"There was…" Sam swallowed and lifted his hands to look at them, as though seeing them for the first time. He turned them in his line of vision, forward then back, examining them closely. He picked at an invisible spot of something on a nail and shivered again.

"There was blood – everywhere. It was…in my hair, my mouth, m-my nose – even my ears. They filled up with the stuff. It was…still warm. A-and salty and I can still taste it…" Sam closed his eyes tightly. "They threw me into a vat of blood. There was a lid – I remember pushing at it, and pushing and pushing but it wouldn't come open. I had to try to breathe, to get out…

"I was drowning in blood. All I could see was red, all I could feel was this thick, sticky…" Sam put a hand over his right eye, touching his forehead with the tips of his fingers.

"It felt like I was in there for days. I don't know how long it was. It might have been hours, or seconds. I don't remember.

"When they dragged me out, one of them touched my forehead. Here," and Sam tapped his forehead just above the right eyebrow.

"It felt like my head exploded. I blacked out.

"And I don't remember what happened after that. I just remember you, and Bobby. I don't remember much else, and all that I do remember is presences and my feelings towards things that were said or done. I can't remember what I did about them, or even what was said.

"I just remember that the only place I was safe…was with you," Sam cast his confused eyes to Dean, whose face was a picture of anguish.

"I'm sorry… I should have found you sooner, I should have gone in there and kicked the asses of those sons of bitches," Dean said, a snarl attached to his words. Sam smiled weakly.

"I know you'd have done what you could," he said, his voice quiet.

"Do you know the name of the demon who did this?" Dean demanded. Sam nodded.

"Giles Davis. Or at least, that's the name of the human whose body he was in. I think he was the club's owner," Sam said, and it was Dean's turn to nod. That also corresponded with what Zach had told him.

Suddenly, Dean shook his head sharply again. It felt as though his eyes rolled as he did so and he lost his concentration again for a minute. He pressed his fingers to his forehead.

"What the Hell…?" Dean said, rubbing his head to try to clear it. It felt like the morning grogginess after a poor night's sleep, like there were clouds in his head.

"The grey is coming, Dean," Sam said, watching dully as wisps of silver-grey cloud moved over and obliterated everything in the space behind his brother. "I can't control it anymore.

"It can't take you. You have to go back – now. Now, to where it's safe."

"Sam, I can't leave you here!" Dean said, grabbing his brother's shoulders firmly.

"But it's my dream, Dean," Sam said with a thin, fond smile on his face.

"It's time to wake up."

* * *

Dean jolted upright on the bed. He gasped and breathed quickly, still feeling the cold, invasive tendrils of grey cloud in his subconscious. Bobby looked at him in concern.

"You've only been under for ten minutes. Everything okay?" Sam fidgeted in the bed next to Dean's and turned to face him, his eyes tired and dull. Dean looked at Sam, his face wearing an expression of misery.

"No," Dean said, stumbling to his feet. "I know much more than I wanted to." He picked up the fallen cup from the bed and made to get up when a sudden tug on his arm made him turn. Sam had grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and was clinging to it.

"Ist…saf-e…safe…in you…" he forced. Dean closed his eyes and tugged his hand free, unable to look at or speak to Sam in fear that his emotions would give him away. While he put the cup down by the room's kettle, Sam forced himself to sit up, gesturing wildly at Bobby. Bobby looked confused, and so Sam jabbed air with his index finger, trying to get his point across. When Bobby still looked puzzled, Sam threw back his covers and stumbled to his feet. The older man stood to help him and Dean marched angrily across the room and grabbed Sam just before he tripped on the end of the bed.

"Dammit, Sam, what are you doing?" he asked. Sam did not respond at all; instead he pushed forward until he reached the table and sat himself awkwardly in one of the chairs. He reached out for the pile of letters and cut out pictures and tried to order them, but to no avail. He looked at the selection of photos and letters in confusion.

Taking pity on him, Bobby stood beside him and separated the pictures from the letters, ordering the alphabet for him. Dean sat in a chair beside his brother and waited. It was clear Sam had something to say, so the least he could do was listen.

As he had done before with Bobby, Sam lifted an index finger and jabbed it at the letters, one after another. It was a long and arduous process, and Dean grabbed a pen and notepaper so he could write down the letters that Sam chose.

P-R-O-T-E-C-T

Dean looked perplexed at this.

"Protect what, Sammy?" he asked. Sam pulled the 'U' out of the pile and pushed it towards Dean.

"Me?" Dean still looked at a loss. Sam took a deep breath and sighed. He pointed to himself, jabbing an index finger into his chest.

"Okay, we're down to sign language," Dean looked aside, frustrated. Sam slapped Dean's hand hard as though to remind him that he was there.

"Stop that!" Dean said, and for a moment the brothers looked angrily at each other. Once again, Sam jabbed at himself with an index finger, still with a look of irritation on his face.

"Right. You," said Dean. "You what?" Sam then jabbed at the word on the pad before Dean.

"You protect – wait. You protected me?" Dean asked, his confusion suddenly clearing. Sam smiled and nodded, pulling the 'U' back to the alphabet and pointing again. Work was still slow, but Dean was more receptive on the return journey.

W-A-K-E U-P G-R-E-Y

"You woke up – so you protected me from that grey stuff," Dean said, his voice thin. "You remember the dream don't you?" Sam nodded, looking relieved. He began again, but this time Dean knew where he was headed with his pointing finger and he didn't like it.

T-E-L-L H-O-U-S-E

Dean did not respond straight away. In his own poor state, Sam did not recognise Dean's reticence and interpreted it as misunderstanding.

B-U-I-L-D I-N-G T-E-L-L

F-O-R-G-E-T

Dean rubbed his mouth for a moment.

"No," he said suddenly, and got to his feet. Sam looked stung and again began jabbing his fingers at the letters, but Dean was having none of it.

"No!" he shouted, and swept his hand through all the letters, scattering them across the table and the floor. Some of them fell into Sam's lap, and with fingers that were curled and almost useless, he scrabbled to pick them up – while conscious, they were his only effective form of communication.

"When you can remember for yourself, you can have that memory back – I ain't telling you!" Dean ranted.

_I'm not giving you back your grief! Not like this!_, he thought to himself.

"Dean!" Bobby said, his voice chiding. Dean shook his head and simply replied,

"This ends tonight. I'm gonna kill every last one of those sons of bitches, and I'm gonna fix Sam. He can remember that building on his own or not at all!"

"What building? Dean!" said Bobby, but his words fell on deaf ears as Dean stomped to the motel room door and opened it wide, slamming it shut behind him.

Bobby was starting to feel like he was trying to steer a truck that was careening out of control – the breaks were out and the best he could hope for was a crash that didn't kill everyone involved. He shook his head and turned to Sam, who was slouched over the table. Every now and then his shoulders shook, and Bobby understood that sometimes it was best to say nothing, to let grief take its course.

* * *

When Dean returned in the early evening, he was carrying a bag of supplies. Among other things he'd picked up, he carried several cans of spray paint, some household candles, a bottle of cheap vodka and a lucky horseshoe charm. In one hand he held a heavy, old book.

Sam had retreated to his bed some time before and now slept soundly. Dean put the bag of supplies down on the table. Quietly, he crept towards Sam's bed with the book in his hand. He lowered himself onto the bed, so that he sat beside his brother.

Sam squirmed restlessly, but did not wake. Bobby was dozing quietly on the other bed, his hands under his head and his cap lowered over his face. Dean looked at him for a beat, then turned his attention back to Sam.

His thoughts – and in some way fears – had been confirmed. _His_ Sam was still in there somewhere. Inside this breaking, increasingly fragile body his brother still languished, hoping and praying for a hand to pull him from the mire. Sure, the Sam in the dream hadn't been a hundred percent, but he'd been able to communicate. There had been more recognisable Sam in that one dream conversation than there had been in his conscious body since Dean had found him in the asylum.

He'd been able to tell Dean enough about what had gone on in The Box for him to appreciate how horrific it was and how quickly he needed to put a stop to it. He'd told him enough to verify what Zach had told him when they had gone back to his house after their meeting in the coffee shop; that there was a demon torture pit in The Box. Zach hadn't known the details; because of his strange status among demons, he was not only rejected by them but his beliefs made him an open target.

Zach had shown Dean plans of the building and given him copies, drawn in which locations he suspected of containing torture pits, handed over copies of photographs and identified the demons in them. His intelligence would be invaluable tonight, when Dean went back to The Box and took it out of commission. Zach had even promised to meet him there, but Dean suspected that he would not be able to offer any real help – not with the plan he had in mind.

Dean couldn't do any more for Sam. Not now. Not until The Box was out of commission. Zach had promised to help Sam, but would not be drawn on the details. It made Dean seriously doubt his ability to do so – but they had saved Alice, hadn't they? Sam acknowledged that the girl had been in the dungeons with him, had been taken like the others and subjected to terrible horrors. Yet there she had sat, in the café that morning, talking to Zach about how his group of deluded demons had 'saved' her.

Dean knew that it could be a trick; but if it was, he would let himself be tricked just this once. His father had once told him in no uncertain terms that it only took one mistake, that it only took one lapse of attention for tragedy to strike. He knew this to be true, but he also knew that there were some situations in which you had no choice but to take risks.

This was one of those situations.

Dean looked at the book in his hands. The leather binding was cracked and flaking, the pages within yellowed and warped. At once time, the book would have had gilt pages, but the gold leaf on the edges had worn very thin and had turned green with age. He opened it to a marked page and looked at the words printed on thin paper before him.

There wasn't much he could do for Sam now. However, this he _could_ do – and in the event that he did not return from town that night, or ever again, he wanted at least for Sam to have any protection that 'God' was able to give him.

Dean placed his palm gently on Sam's forehead. The younger man looked pensive for a moment in his sleep, but did not stir. Quickly, and in a low voice, Dean read from the marked page in the old tome.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in praelio. Contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur. Tuque princeps militiae caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo divina virtute in infernum detrude. Amen."

_Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen. _

Bobby stirred on the bed next to Sam's and Dean immediately removed his hand from Sam's forehead and snapped the book shut with a low thud.

"That's a good strong one," Bobby said as he rearranged the cap on his head.

"Strongest I could find," Dean said in reply.

"So… What's the plan now?" asked Bobby. Dean looked at him, the book hung between his hands.

"I go to Montevideo and kick the asses of a bunch of demons," Dean said, as though that much was obvious. Bobby lifted his cap and scratched his head.

"Just like that. On your own?"

"Somebody's gotta look after Sam," Dean said. Bobby moved to sit on the edge of the bed, looking directly at Dean.

"I'm not going to stay here while you go slaying a nest of demons on your own, Dean."

"I won't be on my own. Well… not completely."

"Zach?" Bobby asked. Dean simply nodded.

"How do you know you can trust him?"

"I don't. But what choice do I have Bobby?" Dean resisted the temptation to look around at Sam to prove his point – but Bobby understood perfectly well what he meant.

"What did Sam say in the dream?" Bobby asked. Dean's face took on its standard stoically blank look.

"Enough for me to know that at least part of what Zach said is true," he said. Bobby sat back and rubbed his chin.

"Well, I'm coming with you," Bobby said.

"No!" said Dean angrily, a frown rending his forehead. "Somebody has to look after Sam!"

"Then _I'll_ go to the nest!"

"_No_!"

"Dean! What is wrong with you!?" Bobby said, his own expression stormy. Dean shook his head. Bobby nodded as a thought occurred to him.

"Don't make this personal, Dean. That's what your dad did – look at what happened to him."

"Don't talk about my dad that way, Bobby," Dean said, his voice low and the warning clear.

"If you make this personal; if you make this about vengeance for Sam, you've already lost! They'll kill you, and what happens to Sam then? What happens if Zach doesn't come through?" Bobby asked.

"Sam will survive," Dean said firmly. "Because I'm gonna fix him if it's the last thing I do."

"So you don't care if you die in there, so long as Sam's okay?" Bobby asked incredulously.

"That's about it," Dean said, and his eyes told Bobby that he'd never meant anything more in his life than he did then. Bobby laughed mockingly, with a hint of growing despair and put his hand over his eyes.

"I don't know why I'm so surprised. You _are_ the kid who sold your soul to a demon to bring him back from the dead," he said.

"The reason you come out with that self-sacrificing shit is because you think you're not important enough for anybody to care about! It's crap, Dean, and it's selfish. Don't you have any idea how crippling that shit is to hear? Don't you have any idea just how much Sam loves you? What he'd do for you?

"Dean. Don't you have any idea how it would break him to lose you?"

Dean found himself silenced. For once, his lightening wit failed him – because there really wasn't anything he could say to that.

"I mean, where is he going? He can barely walk on his own, Dean," Bobby said.

"That's part of the problem," Dean replied. He rubbed his face and said,

"He's not able to defend himself, Bobby. Not right now. I can't leave him vulnerable."

For a moment, the two were silent.

"How much do you trust Zach?" Bobby asked. Dean looked sceptical.

"Not _that_ much," he said quickly. There was a rustling next to him in the bed, and Sam's hand suddenly snagged Dean's sleeve again. Dean turned to his brother, who looked up at him intently. His expression was peaceful, and he lifted the weak hand to jab at the air with an index finger. Dean immediately nodded and stood, walking over to the bag of supplies. From within it he pulled out the Ouija board Sam had purchased to communicate with Dean after the crash. He'd snagged it out of the box and slipped it into the bag for the journey from the car to the motel room.

He returned to Sam's bed and sat down in the same spot, holding out the board and supporting it on his legs.

It was his way of saying sorry. Sorry for taking away his communication device earlier on, sorry for losing his control and sorry for not being brave enough to tell him the truth he'd promised to. The ouija board was better than paper letters; it was solid and had numbers as well as the standard alphabet – not to mention the options of 'yes' and 'no'.

Sam jabbed at the board slowly.

B-O-B-B-Y G-O

Dean paused, reluctant to admit to what this might mean. He was planning to kick some serious demon ass for what they'd done to his brother.

"You want me to stay?" Dean asked. Sam smiled weakly and jabbed at the board again.

No.

"Wait – what?" Dean asked, confusion on his features.

D-E-A-N G-O

"No, no, no, no," said Dean, realising what Sam was trying to say. "I'm not leaving you here on your own. No way." Sam frowned and jabbed again at the board.

Yes.

"Not happening, Sammy. I'm not negotiating on this." Dean shook his head firmly. Sam, equally as stubbornly, jabbed his index finger at the board again.

Yes. Goodbye.

"D'you know what? You don't get a say," Dean said, putting the board face down in anger. Sam struggled to lift it from Dean's lap, his face contorted with the effort it took. Finally, Dean gave in, and lifted the board again.

G-I-V-E G-U-N

"What for?" Dean asked nervously.

P-R-O-T-E-C-T

"Can you still fire it without it taking your hand off?" Dean asked. Sam smiled weakly again and jabbed at some more letters.

T-R-Y

G-U-N N-O-T C-H-O-P-S-T-I-C-K-S

"And I can trust you not to run off and start shooting random innocent people with it?" Dean asked. Sam sighed and looked away before turning back to the board.

T-H-I-N-K S-O

"That's not good enough, Sammy. I don't want to come back here and find you splashed all over the walls because you lost control and somebody had to take you out," Dean said coarsely. Sam looked scornful.

No.

"Sure?"

Yes.

Dean sighed and looked at the wall above Sam's head.

"I don't like it, Sammy."

G-O

B-E C-A-R-E-F-U-L

"_You_ be careful," Dean frowned. He looked across at Bobby who had sat silently throughout the brothers' exchange. Sam too looked at Bobby, and then indicated for Dean to lift the board again – he had allowed it to drop forward. Dean did so, and for the last time, Sam stabbed at the letters with his finger.

W-A-T-C-H D-E-A-N

Bobby nodded.

"I will."

S-T-U-P-I-D

Bobby smirked at this and Dean pouted.

"Yeah - don't I know it, kid," Bobby chuckled, smiling all the way to his eyes.

"Who are you calling stupid?" Dean asked Sam, protesting at the label. Sam smiled; it was a weak smile, but it was all him.

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You may be pleased to know that the next chapter will be more interesting – this one just…isn't all that, I'm afraid. A girl needs to learn how to edit properly.

_Thank you very much for reading, though! I hope you're enjoying the story so far! _


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer**_: **'Supernatural' was created by Eric Kripke. I do not own the TV show 'Supernatural' or the characters portrayed therein (although my own characters **_**are**_** my own). I am making no money from this fic (but if Mr Kripke feels like giving a girl a break into writing, she'd be more than happy to oblige! XD**

_**Author's Note: **_As I was so very late in getting out the last chapter, have the next chapter early :) It's a little shorter than normal, but it was either a shorter chapter this time or a very long chapter this time. Ya see? Who said I wasn't a nice gal? ;)

_**Points to note:**__ This story was started just after I watched 'Mystery Spot' (S03E11) and was being worked on right up until 'No Rest for the Wicked' (S03E16). Hence when I started writing, Bela was very much a part of the action. On that basis, and others, there may be coincidental errors in canon. For best results, stick this fic into the gaping hole left by the writer's strike :)_

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Eyes of a Stranger

_**Chapter Nine**_

Dean was distracted as he drove the Impala back towards Montevideo for the second time that day. The sun was so low that it had disappeared behind the horizon, leaving nothing of itself behind but reflections of the day. With great disquiet, Dean had left Sam in the motel room, the Taurus model 92 beneath his pillow. He had no idea if Sam could really fire it or not, nor did he know if the danger Sam posed to others had passed. Only one solace remained; if Sam was being programmed by the parasites to shoot his family, then Dean was it and he wasn't within reach. If that was a cast-iron part of the pattern, it meant that he'd do nothing until Dean got back from Montevideo.

Bobby sat silently beside him, aware of the elephant between them, but choosing not to anger it. He knew that Dean was uncomfortable with leaving Sam undefended – Hell, it wasn't his own preference either, but by that same token Sam wasn't going to improve until they got to the bottom of the issues at The Box. Bobby was unable to make peace with the idea of Dean going to face a nest of demons alone – even if the boy beside him seemed unfazed by it. Even Sam, in his damaged state, had recognised that this job needed the both of them; if Sam wasn't able to get Dean's back, he wanted to be sure that _somebody _did.

Dean and Bobby had spent an hour or so building homemade plastic explosives with some of Dean's various purchases. They were now stored in the trunk of the Impala; Dean had every intention of destroying The Box in its entirety. What had happened to Sam – and therefore Dean - wasn't allowed to happen to anyone else.

* * *

Dean pulled up outside Zach's house. The demon stood in shades of sand and white by the peninsula wall, his hands wrapped around his upper arms to defend against the cool breeze. Dean got out of the Impala immediately, closing the door. Bobby's exit from the car was slower, more calculating. His expression gave nothing away as he looked at the demon for the first time. Zach inclined his head to him warily, handing over a quantity of respect and power as he bowed his head to the whiskered man.

Bobby drew up to Dean's side quickly as Dean spoke to Zach.

"You ready?"

"Yes.

"I'm coming in with you," Zach said. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"You'll be sent back to Hell," he said, "and you're not going there unless you help Sam first." Zach nodded, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, pulling it back to show a binding link burned into the pit of his shoulder.

"Not a problem," he said. "I didn't want to hurt this body too much, but I figured that was a necessity." Dean nodded.

"You won't be able to get out if the going gets tough," Dean said. Zach nodded and walked away from Dean towards the Impala. He opened the back door.

"That's fine. I didn't expect anything else." He climbed into the rear of the Impala and closed the door behind him. Dean rolled his eyes skywards and took a deep breath.

"I hate that guy," he muttered, moving past Bobby towards the Impala. As he did so, he felt Bobby grab his arm firmly. He looked back, and was alerted by the look on Bobby's face.

"I don't like him, Dean. I don't trust him," the older man said in quiet tones.

"Don't worry; I want him where I can see him at all times." Dean said and nodded in grace to Bobby's words. "Mind if he rides shotgun?"

"Not a bit," Bobby replied.

With that, Dean marched down to the Impala and opened the rear door. Zach looked up, puzzled.

"Out," said Dean, and made a sweeping point with his index finger. "You're not sitting in back."

"Okay," said Zach after a beat. He sighed. "This is because I'm a demon, right?"

"Give the man a cigar," Dean said. Zach climbed out of the car.

"I guess I should expect that level of bias from a hunter," he said, a wry smile on his face. Dean nodded.

"Oh, you should. Especially this one. Demons haven't exactly been the light of my life," he said. Zach walked around to the passenger side and said,

"Dean. I hope I can prove you wrong."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Dean said, warning in his voice as the three men got into Dean's much loved car.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled up the Impala outside the coffee shop where he had first discussed The Box with Zach. The three of them got out of the car quickly, and Dean moved to the rear, opening up the trunk immediately. He grabbed a duffel bag and gave it to Bobby, then pulled one out for himself.

"Do I get anything?" asked Zach as he looked at the arsenal in the trunk.

"You think I'm crazy enough to arm a demon? No," Dean said, not even bothering to look at Zach as he spoke.

"Just as well. I don't want one or need one," said Zach mysteriously. Dean looked at Zach warily.

As Dean slammed down the lid of the trunk, Zach turned towards The Box and said,

"They know we're here." Dean followed the line of Zach's gaze with his eyes at the black façade and said,

"Good. Then we can use the front door."

Dean tossed Bobby a can of spray paint, which the older man caught deftly. They both flicked the lids off into the street with their thumbs and walked purposefully towards the building decorated in black and neon.

The name of the building was lit up now, and there were bouncers on the door. There was a lot of noise coming from within, and the baseline of the music could be felt through the concrete floor as they approached. Every now and then, the open doors spilled computer-controlled light from theatrical lanterns across the sidewalk.

The club was open for business.

The three men slid past the building using the sidewalk, but Dean soon slipped into the darkness and Bobby followed quickly. Very soon, the sound of paint being sprayed could be heard, and Zach said,

"Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's a Devil's Trap, then yeah," Dean said, spraying quickly.

"You're not putting a Key of Solomon around the whole building?" Zach asked incredulously.

"You know, you're much faster than I gave you credit for," Dean said as he sprayed paint and crawled across the concrete.

"That's a bit ambitious, even for you," Zach said as he shook his head as though to clear confusion. "Are you sure about this?"

"Sure. I pull fire alarm, people get out, demons stay inside. What's not to be sure about?"

"Okay, well… You're the boss," Zach said uncertainly, and shivered.

"You got it," Dean said, fixing Zach with his eyes for eth first time during the conversation.

Dean and Bobby gradually parted, taking the Key of Solomon around the sides and towards the front of the building. As they approached the front door, Dean looked up to find the bodyguards staring at him warily.

"US Geological Survey," Dean said, by way of explanation, and whipped out an ID card that said 'Honorary Texan', putting it back as soon as he'd displayed it. "Not just any old graffiti here," he said, flashing his patented charming grin. The bouncers didn't look any more comfortable after Dean's explanation as Bobby painted the last of the symbols into the finished Devil's Trap.

Dean sniffed the air suspiciously. He looked at Bobby.

"You smell burning?" he asked the older man. Bobby sniffed and rearranged his cap.

"You know, I think I do."

The bouncers stepped in front of Dean as he made towards the main door.

"Excuse me fellas, I think you might have a genuine problem in here," he said, but the bouncers were unfazed. Zach stepped forward, and said,

"He's right. I smell burning. Smells like…hellfire," he said. Finally, still looking suspicious, one of the bouncers headed into the building to explore the possibility of fire within. Dean looked at Bobby quickly and the older man nodded curtly.

With that, the two of them dived forward, rushing the one remaining bodyguard and pushing him inside the building and over onto his back. Zach looked nervously at the Key of Solomon and stepped inside it, following the other two men inside.

Dean quickly stepped over the fallen bouncer, who attempted to struggle to his feet – but met Bobby's fist ahead of being able to pull himself up. The older man started to drag the unconscious form back towards the door and Zach drew up next to him, grabbing a limp arm. They quickly arrived at the edge of the Devil's Trap, which Bobby walked over easily – but Zach stopped dead as his foot brushed the edge of the paint.

"Well, your Key of Solomon works," he said, as Bobby pulled the unconscious bouncer out onto the sidewalk and quickly re-entered. Bobby's only answer to the demon was a cold glance as he passed him. Zach shook his head and followed Bobby inside.

Dean was moving quickly amongst the throng of people, keeping to the walls. He knew that there had to be at least one fire alarm here somewhere…

Ah. His hand caught against a red box on the wall. He smiled crookedly, wrapped his hand around the lever and pulled.

Nothing happened, except that a small light appeared on the red box.

"Oh, shit," Dean said. It suddenly occurred to him that such a public place would probably have a code word system – something where an alarm would sound in a control box and somebody would be sent to find out more about it via a tannoy announcement. They would often use names like 'Mr Sands', followed by the location 'Mr Sands' should go to – the location of the fire alert.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore – shortly before deciding that if he couldn't _fake _a fire, then he was going to have to damn well make a real one. He rifled in his duffle bag as he made his way to the DJ on stage.

The man was getting very into the trance track he was playing, and so he barely noticed as Dean approached. When he finally looked up, Dean nodded approvingly along to the music, despite it not being to his taste, and indicated that the DJ should take his headphones off. The man did so, still nodding his own head to the music.

"Hey! You take requests?" Dean shouted over the music as he surreptitiously squirted lighter fuel into the speakers directly in front of the DJ's desk.

"Yeah, sure," the DJ shouted back. Dean struck a match and held it up.

"How about 'Firestarter' by The Prodigy?" he said, before flicking it into the speaker system. The DJ jumped back animatedly as flames leapt upwards from the desk in front of him.

"Shit! What the Hell are you doing?!" the DJ exclaimed, as screams exploded across the room. Dean put his hands out and shrugged in a 'what can you do?' gesture before leaping off the stage into the frightened crowd.

However, he didn't have a chance to go any further before a man his height appeared in front of him. The man smiled darkly and showed Dean his entirely black sclera. Dean's hand immediately went to his back pocket, and the hip flask of holy water that was tucked there – but he was not fast enough. The man stepped forward and hit him hard, twice in quick succession. Dean took a breath, but didn't have a chance to do anything more before the demon he faced punched him once more and threw him across the room, through the crowds that were between him and the wall. They were not between him and the wall for long, however, and he heard his spine crack as he impacted with the brickwork.

Dean's shoulder hurt like hell at the impact and, entirely winded, he sat perfectly still as the lights of the club continued to whirl and twist above him. A flash of white suddenly passed before his eyes and he looked up to see Zach standing above him.

"Told you I had your back," Zach said. "Well…nearly." As the demon who had struck Dean approached, Zach slammed out his hand, palm facing the attacker. Dean felt the energy of Zach's strike even from where he sat on the floor, and watched as the demon flew across the room, crashing into the far side wall of the dance floor. Dean watched Zach's expression as he upped the pressure on the demon, his face twitching as he struggled to control the urges within him to be more savage still.

Dean switched his gaze to the demon recipient of Zach's wrath. His eyes were bulging in his head, and Dean could see the impression of his ribs through his shirt.

"Stop! You'll kill the host!" Dean yelled as soon as he got his breath back. Zach dropped the pressure immediately and lowered his hand, breathing hard. The demon dropped to the floor and scurried away, doubtless to get reinforcements.

"S-sorry. Sorry, I…" Zach said, as Dean stumbled to his feet. Dean looked at him suspiciously but as he opened his mouth to speak, the club's sprinkler system kicked in. The flames sizzled behind them, and above them several of the computer controlled lamps popped and went out.

Dean looked up to see Bobby approaching through the gaggle of people headed for the door and pouring out into the foyer.

"C'mon," he said. "If they didn't know for sure we were here before, they do now!"

Dean immediately followed the older man through the dance room towards the foyer doors, water from the sprinkler system quickly drenching the two hunters and their unlikely ally. As they came level with the door, two demons in the guise of a man and a woman appeared in front of them. They were clad as club goers - Dean thought it very likely that they had swapped bodies in the melee of people rushing to leave the burning building. The fire was now grasping at everything in its path, established and looking to convert to its cause.

Dean wasn't going to be caught out twice. His hand immediately dived into his duffle bag and he pulled out a double barrelled sawn-off, already loaded. The man dived towards him, but Dean was prepared this time – he aimed at the demon and squeezed the trigger, sending a blast of salt straight at its chest. It immediately screamed and pulled back, long enough for Dean to get a second shot at it and for Bobby to fire his own previously concealed sawn-off at the second demon.

"Sacerdos ab Ordinario delegatus, rite confessus, aut saltem corde peccata sua detestans, peracto, si commode fieri posit…" Dean heard behind him, and the demons before him flinched and screamed, even as two more threw themselves over the banisters lining the stairs to the second floor. He blasted one with the shotgun as Bobby did the same with the other. Dean glanced behind him to hear Zach continuing to recite the Rite of Exorcism;

"Et aspergat aqua benedicta, et genibus flexis, aliis respondentibus, dicat Litanias ordinarias usque ad Preces exclusive…"

"You can actually say that?" Dean yelled over the sounds of the panicking crowds still pushing their way out of the main doors before them, his foot on one of the demons who had leapt over the banisters. He poured holy water over his face, making the demon scream with every breath.

As Zach finished the exorcism, the four demons that had stood between the three gatecrashers and the door were purged from their stolen bodies, expelled from the throats of their victims in four black clouds which headed towards the ceiling and dissipated with a roar. Dean nodded at the panting turncoat behind him, approving despite himself.

"Nice. Can you still stand up?"

"Yeah," Zach panted, and shivered. "Shit, that sucked."

"How'd you get away with it?" Dean asked, as he headed quickly towards the main doors – but more specifically, to a small hatch on the left wall, just before the exit.

"You learn these things when you're…turning on your own kind," Zach said, still trying to get his breath back.

Bobby followed Dean closely and stood behind him, watching like a hawk as the last of the club's human visitors vacated. The doors were slammed shut behind them by an invisible force as they left, leaving sixteen humans standing in the foyer with them.

"So you're the ones who can't leave, huh?" he said, as he finished reloading his sawn-off.

With Bobby watching his back, Dean opened the hatch on the wall and reached in, yanking out what looked like the handset of a phone. As he pulled the wire connecting it to the electrics board at the back of the cabinet to its limit, he didn't stop. One hard yank and the cord came free, leaving exposed wires to the PA system. Dean worked as quickly as he could to rewire them into the jack plug that he had liberated from his duffel, but he was much better at bomb fuses than actual electrical work and he struggled with the copper tails.

One of the sixteen demons leapt for Bobby and he shot at him, expelling him for only a moment. The demon shook his head; these demons were going to be much harder to shift than the normal ones.

"Dean! Leave that to me!" Bobby exclaimed, pulling his younger counterpart out of the way. "You get upstairs – you've got a rosary, right?" Dean nodded.

"Think fast!" said Bobby, and as he did so he shot at the recovered demon as he leapt for Dean's back. Dean swung around and shot the demon again as Bobby reloaded. Zach said,

"I'll watch Bobby's back; you go do what you have to!" Dean handed the mp3 player to Bobby who looked meaningfully at Dean. The younger man didn't have time to apologise for leaving his older friend in the 'capable' hands of a disloyal demon, but he knew from experience that Zach was capable of protecting him and that he was willing to.

With that, Dean turned and ran for the stairs, grabbing the banister rail and leaping the shallow steps in twos. He heard a snarl behind him and a knife whistled past his ear, but he ignored it; he heard Zach growl something and the sounds of hand to hand combat behind him as he continued to run, quickly finding himself on the half-way point of the first set of stairs. He spun on his heels and ran further up, into all encompassing darkness.

As he ascended, he suddenly heard a chittering, and the sound of a multitude of thick, leathery wings. He paused briefly, and a large black shape flew past him from the stairwell towards the wall. His cheek stung immediately afterwards, and as Dean reached a hand up to touch his face, he felt the salt on his fingers sting further the scratches that the shape had left on his face.

"Ugh! Bats!" Dean exclaimed, and loosed a shot in the direction of the sounds filling the air around him. In the afterglow of the shot, he saw a pair of eyes illuminated, set into a face that looked like a distorted baby's. The face screeched unpleasantly at the burning light and swept over Dean's shoulder even as the large shapes grew in number around Dean.

"Okay, _not_ bats! Familiars!" Dean said, horror-struck and increasing his speed. One of the demon familiars flew alongside Dean, chattering in his ear and flapping its wings in his face; taunting him, daring him. Dean reached up and ripped the half furry, half leathery thing from his face, throwing it as hard as he could into the wall beside him and stamping hard on it when it descended. It disappeared into a cloud of black smoke, and he heard a wail from below as the demon who owned the familiar lost his physically strengthening bond with it.

Dean snarled – now he knew exactly how to deal with the familiars _and_ damage the marauding demons below.

Still running, the light and sound of the battle below disappearing as he rose into the heart of the building, Dean reached to his waistband and withdrew his trusty Colt 1911, putting the shotgun back into the duffel.

"C'mon then, you little fuzzy bastards. I need me some target practice," Dean said under his breath as he continued to run, the gun held with both hands to his left side as he climbed yet another flight.

Dean was tiring; there were more stairs than he'd imagined there might be and although he'd figured out what Bobby was suggesting, getting up to the sprinkler tanks was going to be a pain in the ass.

One of the familiars dive-bombed him, and Dean was bathed in light for just a moment - a freeze-frame - as he fired the Colt 1911. His shot was true; the bullet tore straight through the chest of the familiar and it screeched as it was sent back to Hell.

"How many times in the movies, Dean? Never run up, _never run up_!" Dean said to himself as he fired at a familiar that shot past him, its outline clear enough in the increasingly faint light from below. Dean's shot caught it in the wing, and it wailed ear piercingly as it pinwheeled down the centre of the stairwell, eventually returning as a cloud of black smoke.

Dean continued to run, and although his thighs hurt like Hell and his breath grew ragged in his throat, he had to keep going. He had to do what he could for Bobby and Zach below, and he had to get back to Sam – alive, and in one piece, equipped with the reassurance that nobody else would ever be taken into The Box and used as an elaborate lab rat.

He took three more shots in the dark, killing two more of the familiars and taking a handful of steps. Finally, at the top of the very long staircase, he stopped running. Dean had long enough to presume that there must only be a small number of the demons below who had the ability to conjure a familiar before the one demon's aid remaining dropped from the ceiling onto his shoulder and dug it's teeth in hard.

Dean cried out as he felt the familiar's jagged teeth bite into the soft skin of his neck and shoulder. Instinctively he grabbed at it and pulled, but the familiar just dug its teeth in harder. Dean could hear it growling in his ear, and could feel blood rolling down his chest and soaking into his shirt.

A grimace on his face, Dean lifted the Colt 1911 and pointed it over his shoulder at the chittering familiar. His arm was not behaving to his will; the familiar was biting into his muscles, making it difficult to raise his arm all the way – but there was no way in Hell Dean was leaving that thing where it was. He narrowed his eyes in the darkness, aimed as best he could – and fired.

The familiar screeched in his ear and exploded in a cloud of black smoke, drifting up towards the ceiling.

"Take that, bitch," Dean said, his ears ringing. He pulled his jacket and craned his neck to look at its shoulder, frowning distastefully at the set of bite holes in it.

He took a second to catch his breath, tucking the Colt 1911 back into his waistband. His feet squelched on the now sodden carpet, and he dug once again in his duffel and pulled out a flashlight. With wet hands he switched it on and cast the beam of light around the top of the stairwell.

He soon laid eyes on what he remembered seeing on Zach's plans. The fixed ladder to the inner roof and the water tanks beyond. He tucked the flashlight, still lit, into his waistband and grabbed at the steps on the ladder, making quick work of them and finding himself facing a locked hatch.

Once again, Dean reached for his Colt 1911 and dug his face into the crook of his arm as he fired on the wood around the lock, splintering it easily with the high calibre weapon. After that, it took only a couple of thrusts with his shoulder (although the pain was blinding) to separate the door from the lock and send it crashing back against its hinges.

Dean grabbed the flashlight again and held it in one hand over his gun, ever watchful as he propelled himself up the remaining steps, shuffling up one step at a time by pushing his back against the edge of the hatch hole. The roof space was clear; but Dean did not lower his guard as he climbed to his feet and looked around him.

Up here, the smell of smoke was almost overpowering. Dean glanced down to see the light from below cutting through wisps of dirty grey as it came up through the metal gangways in front of him. This area, it seemed, was directly above the dance floor, and Dean could see the flames moving seductively below, hear the crackle of the fire as it ate whatever it could find.

Not wishing to alert anybody to his presence, Dean kept the lights off in the roof and used the light from the flames below to guide him. As he stepped out on to the metal gangplanks, he quickly wished he'd thought more about it. The smoke was rising quickly; if he didn't get to the other side and the bright yellow sprinkler tank just visible in the beam of his flashlight, he'd never get to save Sam.

So, Dean did what he knew to do. He ran.

His footsteps were loud as he raced across the metal gangways, the fire clearly visible beneath him. He reached the other side quickly, and found himself panting. It was hard for him to get his breath; the smoke had quickly wound its way into his lungs and was making sure he remembered it.

He coughed hard, putting his back against the sprinkler tank as he did so – eliminating one side of vulnerability. It took him a few moments to recover before he pointed the flashlight up and to his right; the steps to the top of the tank appeared in a metallic flash beside him.

He took a deep breath, coughed again, and turned to the ladder. He made quick work of this one too, and soon found himself standing over the access hatch. He wrenched it open quickly, and looked at the dark water within. It lapped against the sides sullenly, and Dean could hear the hollow sound of a large bank of water hitting plastic.

He smirked and dug in his duffel again. After a few moments, he came out with a rosary, which without further ado he dropped into the tank. After a second's continued rifling, he pulled out a can of salt, which he haphazardly tipped some of into the water beneath him.

"Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi, Filii ejus Domini nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti…" Dean recited the blessing of the Holy Water from a piece of paper he'd grabbed from his pocket.

"…ut fias aqua exorcizata ad effugandam omnem potestatem inimici, et ipsum inimicum eradicare et explantare valeas cum angelis suis apostaticis…"

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Sorry to leave it in such an awkward place! I know my promises aren't worth dust, but I'll try my very best to make sure the next chapter is up soon. Thank you for reading; I hope you've enjoyed this chapter :)


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